


"Purely Platonic"

by vinyl_octopus



Series: Soul-bound [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:24:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=13269985#cmt13269985">this prompt</a> on the meme: In a world where such things are considered entirely mythical, Douglas and Martin have unknowingly developed a platonic soul-bond, and they only discover this after Martin takes the job in Zurich.</p><p>No romantic relationship at the start. One could develop into one, though remaining gen is perfectly fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started as just a bit of a dull ache. Nothing intense, or sharp. Nothing to cause concern. Initially Martin assumed it was indigestion or heartburn caused by eating regularly and richly. After years on such a frugal and limited diet, it was hardly a surprise that his body might rebel against the unexpected quantities of meat and cheese and cream in which he’d been indulging.  
  
But after the first couple of weeks, he’d toned things right back, diet-wise. And six weeks on, he still had the pain. And it was getting worse.

Eventually he concluded he must have pulled or torn a muscle or something during the last frantic moving jobs in the UK (his own included). But an admittedly painful round with the doctor poking and prodding and palpating him yielded no clues. The X-ray and ultrasound were similarly inconclusive.

The clean bill of health initially meant his licence wasn’t in any danger… but when he collapsed in the pilot’s lounge just before a flight, he was raced into the emergency room with people barking frightening suggestions about his heart.

 

It wasn’t his heart.

But Swiss Air decided, quite reasonably, Martin admitted, that he wasn’t safe to fly, and put him on sick leave until he got himself sorted out.

 

***

 

Douglas fared a little better. Heartache and, indeed, indigestion not being entirely unfamiliar sensations, even if he didn’t recognise the first for what it was, he busied himself with torturing the new flight school graduate Carolyn had tricked into working for them – thankfully as First Officer, not Captain – and popped rather more antacids than usual.  


Nevertheless, eight weeks after Martin had left, Douglas was tucked into a ward in the cardiac wing of Fitton hospital, undergoing a barrage of tests.

Unable to find anything wrong, despite the ghastly pallor of his skin, the doctor concluded it was stress and gave Douglas the number of a local therapist.  
  
Douglas was simultaneously furious and terrified. Nothing particularly stressful had happened any time recently and he was _fine_. Being taken off flights for a month, doctors’ orders, was the last thing he needed.

Arthur, who’d been the one to find Douglas shaking and incoherent with pain on the floor of the flight deck, had not stayed in the room while Carolyn and Douglas argued the point. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet since the incident and one look at his worried face as he snuck out of the ward had shut Douglas up and raised Carolyn’s ire.

He’d made the call to the therapist without another word.

 

***

 

“Douglas is off flights too, Skip,” said Arthur, in what was presumably meant to be a comforting tone.

“What do you mean?” A flutter of panic shimmied between Martin’s ribs as he tried to read Arthur’s expression. It wasn’t the first time they’d Skyped, but Arthur seemed incapable of positioning the screen in a way that allowed Martin to see his face properly.

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I mean, it wasn’t brilliant, and it was scary at the time. I thought he was having a heart attack. But if you’ve got the same symptoms… Well. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Obvious…how?” Martin forced his hand down from his chest. Again. Nigh on impossible to convince anyone he was all better and able to fly if he was constantly rubbing the spot over his heart.

“Well, you’ll have to come back. For a visit, at least. It'll be brilliant!” Arthur was barely looking at the screen anyway, clumsily putting together an Airfix model while they chatted.

“I…I can’t, Arthur. I’m not cleared to fly at all.”

The one eye Martin could see blinked in confusion. “But…you guys must have talked about this?”

“What are you…? We’re colleagues. We haven’t even spoken since I left.”

Arthur put down the model pieces and adjusted the screen, temporarily giving Martin a clear view up his nose before shifting it again and managing to supply a slightly wonky view of his worried face. “But that’s not right. I mean you can’t possibly…surely you know you have to _see_ each other. You haven’t spoken at all? Not even Skype? It’s been ages!”

Martin felt his whole face fold into a furrow. “No. Why would we? We’re friends, but we’re not close.”

“But you _are_!” Arthur looked genuinely distressed now.

“Arthur…?”

“No wonder you’re both sick. I can’t believe you two didn’t work out a plan before you left!”

“Arthur, what plan? What are you talking about? People change jobs all the time. Your mum said it herself, this was inevitable. We couldn’t both stay at MJN forever…”

Arthur had left his desk and was pacing his room in the distorted distance, running a hand over his face. The only time Martin had ever seen him so flustered was when Gordon was around.

Something knotted in his stomach as he considered the possibilities. “Are you saying you _knew_ Douglas was sick? Before I left? Arthur, he’s not _dying_ is he?”

“ _Yes_!” Arthur cried desperately, lurching back towards the computer screen.

“Yes?” A cold wave of horror washed over Martin and he felt himself start to shake; vision blurring. In his peripheral vision he saw Arthur’s hands groping helplessly at the screen.

“I mean _no_. No he’s not dying. Yet… But Skip, you _have_ to come back. You have to. Otherwise you’ll both…”

Mortified anger replaced the horror and Martin near blacked out at the sudden emotional change as he considered… “Arthur! This isn’t one of your misguided… _matchmaking_ attempts…is it?” It wouldn’t be the first time Arthur had played Cupid…though he’d never tried to match his colleagues. The sudden rush and change of emotion and adrenaline meant he was only barely holding nausea at bay, let alone hearing properly.

Arthur looked utterly miserable. “No. Of course not. I know neither of you are… But…Martin…surely you two know you’ve bonded?”

The unexpected use of his name and a zinging twinge up his spine almost distracted Martin from the rest of Arthur’s sentence.

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”


	2. Chapter 2

Douglas didn’t even have the energy to seethe properly. After a month of fairly useless meetings with his therapist, she’d grudgingly admitted that, whatever was wrong with him, and whatever _other_ reasons he might need the services of a therapist, he wasn’t _stressed_. In fact, she felt he was rather too well adjusted.

She’d signed him off, but that hardly lessened the worry. Because even if the incident on Gertie hadn’t happened, it was all too obvious by now that _something_ was seriously wrong. For the first time, Douglas actually felt a twinge of worry for himself as he settled shakily into the comfortable armchair by the fireplace. Intellectually, he knew it was by no means cold enough to light the fire. But he was freezing. He pulled the blanket off the back of his chair and wrapped it around himself while he brooded. The therapist might have signed him off, and with the doctors unable to find anything wrong, _technically_ he was clear to fly. But even at his most reckless, Douglas wouldn’t have been game to take the controls in the state he was in. At the moment it was all he could do to get around his flat. He’d already told Carolyn she’d need to rely on Herc for a bit longer.

 

***

 

Three months into his longed-for career and Martin was back staring poverty in the face. Thank goodness he had been cautious enough to stash most of his pay into savings, so he wouldn’t be homeless immediately. But Swiss Air could only be magnanimous for so long. His paid leave was gone and there were limits to how long they were likely to keep him on, even on unpaid leave, given he was really still in a probationary period.

Martin adjusted the oxygen tube under his nose and checked the tank again, shifting the heat pack where it lay against the throbbing ache in his chest and restacking the blister packs of painkillers on the coffee table. Realistically, his days at SA were numbered… but if this kept up, it was possible his days on this earth were numbered, too. So he couldn’t entirely bring himself to care.

Listlessly he hauled his laptop onto his knees; he didn’t even consider opening the flight simulator and half-heartedly surfed news stories until the ping of an incoming call request distracted him.

 

***

 

“Hercules Shipwright, why didn’t you tell me?”

Herc paused in the doorway of the kitchen. He’d only stepped out of the room long enough to make coffee; it seemed impossible he could have done anything to annoy his beloved in such a short space of time.

“What exactly is it I am being accused of?” He set Carolyn’s mug down in front of her and took a strategic position against the bookcase with his own.

Arthur was tucked up on the sofa, Snoopadoop on his lap and a look of bleak despair sitting wrongly on his face.

“I take it you’ve been talking to Martin, Arthur?”

“He looks awful, Herc.”

“He forgot to take off his _oxygen mask_ before talking to Arthur,” said Carolyn, accusingly.

Herc sighed. “He asked me not to say anything. He didn’t want you…well, Arthur… to worry.”

A flash of…something crossed Carolyn’s face. “And you didn’t think to override this request?”

“He’s a grown man, Carolyn.”

“He’s my _friend_ ,” said Arthur.

“He’s an idiot,” said Carolyn. “And so are you. For goodness sake, Herc, he’s on his own over there. Does his family know? What’s wrong with him?”

Herc put his mug down on the nearest shelf and began listing out his responses on his fingers. “One, he’s neither an idiot nor on his own. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Two, I have no idea what his family know. I expect he didn’t want to worry them either. And three…” He sagged finally, dropping both his hands in a defensive shrug… “No one knows what’s wrong with him.”

Carolyn, who had been building up to a furious retort after “one”, was interrupted by Arthur.

“We have to go over there.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course we do,” agreed Carolyn, startling Herc. He hadn’t seen Martin for a week or so. How bad must he look for Carolyn to be willing to stop over in Switzerland? It was all he could do to get her to visit _him_ when he was stuck there.

“And we should take Douglas,” Arthur carried on.

“Dear heart, I really don’t think—”

“It will help. Both of them. I _know_ it will.”

“Arthur.” Herc struggled to be delicate. “I’m not sure Douglas can–”

“He _can_. He _has_ to. That’s why…” Arthur had descended into panicked stuttering. “Mum?”

“Carolyn…”

Carolyn held up her hand at Herc, busy studying Arthur’s face.

“Oh,” was all she said. But Herc could see that something had cleared in her expression.

She got up from her chair and checked the A4 diary she’d left out on the small desk near Herc. “We’ve got a cargo flight to Milan next week. We could probably manage a stopover on the way home.”

“Carolyn–”

“ _Hercules_. This is not up for discussion. I don’t care what Martin told you—”

“But Douglas–”

“I don’t care what Douglas told you either. Though come to think of it, why is he telling you anything?”

“I–”

“Never mind. I don’t care. You’re back in Zurich tomorrow, you can tell Martin when you see him. I’ll talk to Douglas.”

 

***

 

“I don’t need a _wheelchair_ , Arthur,” Douglas huffed from the couch in the Portakabin. “I got myself out of my house and _drove_ here. I can manage the hundred metres from the cabin to the plane.”

“Sorry, Douglas.” Arthur bit his lip and looked apologetically down at the rather second-hand-looking wheelchair he’d …borrowed.

“How did you even get it in here?” asked Carolyn, gesturing at the steps that were the only way in or out of the cabin.

“I carried it,” said Arthur, not quite rolling his eyes.

“And how were you planning to get it back out, once Douglas was in it?”

“I…oh.” Arthur rubbed his neck with embarrassment and rolled the chair back to the doorway. A series of alarming clanks preceded him back down to the tarmac and they heard him rolling it back to wherever he got it.

Carolyn looked Douglas’s near-skinny frame up and down. “I can’t say I entirely disagree with my son’s assessment, unwelcome as it might have been. Douglas, you look dreadful.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be sarcastic with me. You might have made it all the way here by yourself, but by the way you collapsed onto that couch, that was sheer luck.”

“You’re the one who insisted—”

“Yes. I did.”

“Well, then I don’t see—”

“No. But you will. Now hop up. I dare say Herc has finished doing the walk around and is awaiting our presence even as we speak.”

Douglas sighed the long-suffering sigh of one who had to put up with much. But if he’d really meant it, he wouldn’t have been there at all and they both knew it.

Carolyn ignored the obvious wince of pain Douglas wasn’t able to hide, and didn’t comment on the slow and wobbly way he got to his feet. They paused just long enough for Arthur to dart back in and grab his bag and a well-loved hardback book, before locking up and making their way ponderously to the plane.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you want something to read, Douglas?” Arthur brandished his old book at Douglas.

“No, thank you, Arthur.” Douglas wriggled a little further down in his seat, pulling both blankets higher up his neck having already failed to maintain his “perfectly fine” exterior after half an hour in the uncomfortable seat. Really, when had the chairs become so lumpy and awkward? He’d spent enough layovers kipping onboard to be used to how they felt, but now every moulded bit of cushion seemed to dig into his weary flesh.

Arthur was still dithering in the aisle next to him. “I’m _fine_ , Arthur. Just wake me when we land.”

***

It was late afternoon by the time they got to Zurich, the Milan drop-off having taken a little longer than Carolyn had expected.

Douglas looked worse, if anything, but Arthur was overwhelmingly insistent that they meet up at Martin’s flat, rather than stopping off at the hotel to let Douglas rest. Herc was operating on a low-frequency simmer, still confused as to why they were putting a sick man – _two_ sick men – through all this. Carolyn had promised an explanation – later – and the sharp look Herc had given her even as he complied with this folly meant it was one she’d have to keep.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside Martin’s building, Douglas was visibly starting to droop. When he made no attempt to prevent Arthur supporting him across the foyer to the lift, Carolyn knew they were in trouble. As they finally reached Martin’s flat on the 8th floor, a dull shimmer of sweat had coated Douglas’s brow, and she started to wonder if they weren’t just going to end up calling an ambulance.

Martin took an age to answer the door. When it opened, she barely recognised him. She’d thought him skinny before, but his weight-loss mirrored Douglas’s – only he hadn’t had the flesh to spare in the first place. Dark circles bagged under his eyes. His skin was papery and wan, and if the tremor running through his arms was anything to go by, he’d positively dragged himself to the door.

But as he welcomed them in to his tidy one-bedroom flat, his smile was bright, and she tried not to notice that it was also slightly blood-stained. The entry opened straight into the living area and Arthur managed to lever Douglas in through the door and performed a clumsy sort of pirouette to deposit him gently into the nearest armchair as Carolyn and Herc followed with the bags.

Martin half stumbled, half limped back to the couch where an oxygen tank sat on a stand. He sat himself down with an apology as he looped the tubing back around his ears, leaning back with his eyes shut for a moment as he took a few deep breaths.

“Sorry,” he wheezed again, slightly pink from either embarrassment or exertion. “Talk amongst yourselves for a minute…then I’ll get up and be a proper host.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” scolded Carolyn, bustling through to the kitchen to recover from the sight of Martin and Douglas; both so broken and so different to the boisterous, bickering pilots she’d worked with only a few months ago. “I can make tea, if you have it. And Arthur? See if you can’t find a blanket or something for Douglas before he shivers himself onto the floor. I can hear his teeth chattering from here.”

“Oh!” Martin shot a worried glance at Douglas, who was indeed rather hunched and shivery. “Yes, of course. Let me–” Martin twisted to get up as Arthur rushed down what could only be optimistically referred to as a “corridor” towards the bedroom.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin.” Carolyn leaned over the bench that divided the kitchen from the lounge room. “I’m sure we can navigate our way around your little nook without a map.”

Martin coughed what might have been a laugh as Herc disappeared into the kitchen to help locate everything and they all pretended the couple’s concerned, lowered voices didn’t carry over the clatter of crockery.

 

Back in the lounge room, Martin blinked his eyes open to find himself under the mostly steady gaze of his former First Officer.

“So. Martin. You’re looking well.”

Martin snorted, steaming up his tubing. But Douglas wasn’t laughing.

“They didn’t tell me you were sick, too. Well, not _this_ sick. ‘Under the weather’, Carolyn said. I thought she was being euphemistic and you were just homesick.”

“Arthur implied _you_ were dying,” replied Martin. “I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating, but–”

“He is.” Douglas interrupted, firmly. “I’m fine.”

“Really?” Martin watched Douglas barely contain an all-over shudder. “Me too. Isn’t it wonderful we could get together?”

They each caught the other’s eye and fell into the kind of morbid laughter that only the doomed could manage, just as Arthur returned with what looked like most of Martin’s bedding.

No one commented when Martin tucked himself up just as snugly in the proffered duvet as Douglas had under the enormous blanket on the other side of the room. Instead, they made small talk, and Carolyn and Arthur gamely updated Martin on the latest MJN exploits, keeping the laughter soft and constant until the sound of Douglas snoring became too difficult to ignore.

“We should go,” said Carolyn, noticing Martin’s eyes were equally heavy, despite the early hour.

“No, no…it’s fine. It’s really lovely to see you.” Martin might have been earnest, but he was also clearly exhausted.

Herc moved to wake Douglas.

“You can leave him there. He looks like he needs the rest. I’ve been sleeping out here most nights anyway.” Martin indicated the oxygen tank, currently off, with the tubing draped over the top. “So if he wakes, he can always take my bed. Better than trying to get him back to a hotel.”

Herc looked hesitant, but was overruled by Carolyn. “We were going to come back to see you tomorrow anyway. Your fridge is a disgrace.” By which she meant empty. “We’ll collect muggins at the same time. If you’re sure you’ll be all right together? I mean you’re both rather–”

“We’ll be fine,” insisted Martin, pulling himself to his feet a little more easily than he had earlier. “If anything happens, I’ve got a phone. But it _won’t_.” He shuffled over to the door and eventually managed to convince the rest of the party to leave.

They’d been gone ten minutes before he realised Arthur had left his book behind on the floor under the coat rack. He picked it up, glancing uninterestedly at the cover – classic fairytales, by the look – and dumped it on the coffee table to remind himself to give it back.

It really was too early to go to bed. Martin hobbled into the kitchen to wash up the cups and saucers, thankful that at least his breathing had eased a little. Arthur had already done the honours, everything washed, and dried, and laid out ready for…well… ready for inflight service by the looks of things. Martin grinned to himself as he returned to the living room.

Douglas was absolutely sound asleep now, looking much more rested and relaxed than he had done an hour ago. Wary of waking him, Martin cast about for something quiet to do that wouldn’t require too much brain effort. Discounting the TV or his laptop or any of the dense flight manuals he usually kept by the reading lamp, eventually he just picked up Arthur’s book, curled up under the duvet on the sofa, and started to read.


	4. Chapter 4

Having fallen asleep so early in the evening, both Martin and Douglas woke before the birds – such as there were in this urban part of town. Martin came to on the couch, woken by the sound of Douglas bustling around in the kitchen.

“Ah. Good morning, Captain. Sorry, I was trying to be quiet.”

He might have been, but he was far too chirpy given the sun had barely got its act together. Martin yawned and stretched, casting around for his phone to check the time, and dislodging the book that had apparently lain discarded on his belly all night as he’d slept.

Douglas emerged with two steaming mugs in-hand. “Coffee all right for you? It seems we used up the last of your tea yesterday.”

“Mmmm.” Martin took the cup gratefully, still not quite up to verbal feats. He swung himself round to sitting as Douglas settled himself back in the armchair with a wince.

“Your chair’s much more comfortable than my one at home.” He rubbed the arm of it as he took a sip of coffee, the faintest tremble in his hand causing the mug to bounce off his teeth a little.

The steam from his own mug had roused Martin enough to react. “You didn’t have to sleep there, Douglas! You could have taken my bed. Or booted me off the couch. I wouldn’t have minded – you’re a guest. I just didn’t like to wake you when you seemed so…”

“Dead to the world?”

Martin coughed. “Something like that.”

“It’s all right. I’ve rather got in the habit of sleeping sitting up. Bit of a necessity, though I haven’t quite graduated to–” He stared meaningfully at the oxygen tank by the sofa, raising a brow as Martin leaned forward to put his cup on the table and stand. “Are you not drinking that, then?”

Martin was busy stretching, a moan of relief escaping as all his joints cracked and and his spine creaked. “Hmm? Oh, no, it’s not that. I just, uh…” He waved vaguely at his face to indicate the need to brush his teeth. “Bleeding gums and all that. Frightful mouth in the mornings…oh, sorry. That’s probably a bit too much information.”

“Not at all,” said Douglas, taking another gulp of coffee and meeting Martin’s eye with a half-smile of sad solidarity. “For much the same reason, I brushed mine before I put the brew on.”

Martin laughed faintly as he wandered down the hall to the bathroom, luxuriating in the unexpected ability to breathe brought about by a good night’s sleep.

He returned a few minutes later and grabbed his mug, taking the opportunity to stretch his legs walking around the room; flinging curtains and windows open to grab lungfuls of fresh, if slightly chilled, air.

“God. I haven’t felt this good in ages.” He turned to Douglas with a bright smile, carelessly massaging at his ribs; the one spot where the pain hadn’t eased at all.

Douglas gestured pointedly at the motion with his mug as he went back into the kitchen to refill. “I must say, I’m feeling quite well rested myself. Bit stiff, but I’m not sure that’s not from inactivity rather than anything else.” He leaned against the doorway, thoughtfully blowing the top of his drink to cool it. “Must be something in the air over here,” he said finally, wandering over to join Martin at the window.

“Maybe.” Martin’s voice was a bit distant as he deliberately resisted pressing at his ribs again… and watched Douglas roll his shoulder and rub the heel of his own hand absentmindedly over the same spot above his own heart.

 

***

 

The others arrived while Douglas was in the shower; Carolyn bustling past, laden with grocery bags with Herc trotting obediently in her wake. “Don’t _fuss_ , Martin. Put your feet up and we’ll put this away.”

Martin was still standing gaping by the front door. Arthur reached past to close it gently and eyed Martin up and down.

“You’re looking better, Skip.” The careful tone was all wrong for Arthur. It snapped Martin out of his daze and he turned a sharp stare at his not-actually-a-steward.

It was a wasted effort as Arthur was looking around the room, finally spotting his book on the coffee table. “Oh! Did you read it then?”

Martin’s gaze narrowed further. “Yes. I did... Arthur,” Martin’s voice was a hiss. “Please tell me you did _not_ drag Douglas all the way to Zurich in that condition over a…a…a _fairytale?”_

Arthur blinked. “Of course we did.”

“ _We_? Your _mother_ knows about this? _Herc_?” Martin ran a hand over his face and thumped the front door lightly.

“Well. Mum did. Herc only found out last night.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m not sure he really gets it. But,” he straightened again, “Martin, I don’t understand what the problem is?”

“Douglas is _sick_ , Arthur. I mean really, properly sick. You can’t just–”

“But he’s not any more though, is he?”

“What?”

“And neither are you. Not like you were.”

Martin was propped against the wall, still not entirely able to wander as freely and easily as he might…but yesterday he couldn’t even stand for more than a minute or two.

“We can hear Douglas _singing_ from here, Martin.” Carolyn pointed out, stepping out of the kitchen with a tea towel in her hands. “He couldn’t have done that yesterday.”

Now that she mentioned it, the operatic tunes Martin had been ignoring did have rather…a bathroomy echo. He’d assumed it was the radio, since he recognised both the voice and the songs, but that was his mind playing tricks while he wasn’t paying attention. Of course he recognised _Douglas’s_ voice _._

Martin swallowed.

“You know, I thought they were both quite mad,” said Herc, emerging in the doorway in an apron (where had that come from?) and clutching a bowl of eggs that he was whisking into submission. “But Douglas could barely draw enough breath to pick a fight yesterday. And you looked ready for a hospice.”

Martin flinched at the frank assessment, but for the first time, it occurred to him that he hadn’t used the oxygen since tea the evening before. And while he might not be ready to run a marathon any time soon, he hadn’t felt the need to sit and rest all morning.

“He’s right, isn’t he?” Herc pointed at Arthur with the dripping whisk. “You two have actually–”

“Actually what, _Herc?_ ” drawled Douglas, striding from the bathroom in a fog of soap-scented steam, fully dressed but still dabbing at his flop of hair with a towel.

“Good god,” said Carolyn. “Douglas. You look so much better. Are you feeling…?”

“Rather good, actually,” said Douglas, only the slightest tremor in his arms betraying the exaggeration. “I told you I was fine. What’s going on?”

Martin decided he did feel a bit wobbly after all and stumbled over to the couch to sit down; the dull ache in his chest convincing him to lie back.

Herc made a strategic withdrawal back to the kitchen.

 

Deafening silence. Douglas took a moment to watch everyone still in the room.

Carolyn was looking between the two pilots, clearly astonished at the transformation, even if Martin was looking a bit pale again.

In fact, his shower had taken a little more energy than expected, but Douglas’s own pallid skin tone was likely disguised by the flush from the hot water. Still, even with that in mind, Douglas privately acknowledged the improvement, _both_ their improvements, was nothing short of a miracle.

Apparently no one was going to let him in on the conversation he’d interrupted. Douglas heaved a confused sigh and returned the towel to the bathroom, making his way back into the lounge once he’d combed his hair into a perfect coif.

The air was tense. Carolyn had sat down next to Martin, as if her close proximity had any chance of being calming. Arthur was still staring sparkle-eyed at Douglas, who rolled a fist against his chest to ease the pang that was still sitting like a knot of throbbing lead in his heart.

“I knew it would work!” said Arthur, just as Douglas demanded, again, “What’s going on?”

Martin muttered something as Douglas sank into the armchair in irritation.

“What?”

“He said you’ve bonded,” said Carolyn, her serious expression an odd counterpoint to the gleeful look on Arthur’s face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _Platonically_ ,” said Martin, shifting his gaze from the ceiling to Douglas. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“If _that’s_ what I’m…?” Douglas stared astonished around the room. “Have you all gone completely insane?”

“Not completely,” said Herc, appearing reassuringly with several plates of toast and omelet and depositing two of them on the low table in front of Carolyn and Martin and another into Arthur’s eager hands.

“Bonded?”

“Yes,” said Carolyn, not a wisp of deceit in her expression.

“Like best friends for life!” said Arthur, excitedly not dropping his toast as Herc emerged from the kitchen with two more plates.

“Dear god,” said Douglas, accepting one of the meals without even thinking about it. “Did you put something in that tea yesterday, Martin?”

“ _I_ didn’t _make_ the tea yesterday, Douglas.” Martin sounded exhausted.

“Oh! Arthur, did _you_ put something in the tea?”

“ _I_ made the tea, Douglas.” Carolyn seemed unreasonably exasperated. “And no one put anything in anything. We’re not drunk. We’re not drugged. We’re not mad.”

“Didn’t you read the book, Douglas?”

“What _book_ , Arthur?” Douglas was holding onto his temper by a thread.

“That one,” said Martin, still reclined in his seat, pointing a toe at … what looked like a book of fairytales.

“It explains everything,” said Arthur, with the confidence of one who had learned all about polar bears from a single page in a child’s activity book.

“It certainly explains _something_ ,” said Douglas, looking dubiously at his eggs and making no move to pick up the book.

“Well, how would you explain it then?” asked Herc from his position at Martin’s desk, the only person actually digging into his food with any level of enthusiasm.

His tone was entirely reasonable and guileless. It was supremely irritating.

“Explain _what_?”

“Your sudden good health!” said Carolyn, slamming her untouched plate back down on the table in front of her.

“I _told_ you I’m _fine_!” he roared, the non-answers finally tipping him over the edge. He resisted throwing his plate across the room, instead placing it not very gently on the floor by his chair and standing. “I don’t know what sort of ridiculous joke you think you’re playing, but I’ve had enough. I’ve had the tests. I’ve seen the therapist. I came on your little jaunt. It worked. See? I’m _fine_. And I am going for a _walk._ ”

He slammed the door open and stormed to the musty stairwell, far too angry and frustrated to wait for the lift.

 

 ***

 

Herc found him sitting on the stairs on the third floor. One hand gripping at his shirtfront, the wall the only thing holding him up. “I’m just resting,” he said defensively, as Herc sat gingerly at the other end of the step.

“Of course.”

“It’s not my heart.”

Herc politely avoided mentioning that Douglas was, in fact, clutching at the general region of his heart. “No. it’s not.”

Douglas shot him a suspicious glare. “It’s not stress, either.”

“No.”

“Not until _now_ , anyway.”

“Quite.”

“I don’t understand.”

Herc released a sympathetic breath. “It’s not a trick, Douglas. It’s not a joke.”

“You believe all this? _You_?” Douglas dropped his hand in surprise, twisting so his back was against the wall and he could look Herc in the face.

“I didn’t,” Herc held up a hand to prevent Douglas’s interruption. “Until I saw the two of you this morning. It’s…I don’t know what else would explain it – the unusual illness _or_ the recovery. According to Arthur, it’s textbook.”

“According to _Arthur_. God help us, are we relying on _him_ now?”

“Not usually. But in this…yes. Understanding people…it’s something he’s rather good at. Surprisingly. Especially with–” Herc nodded at Douglas and lifted his eyes to indicate Martin’s flat, several floors above.

Douglas released a sigh that felt as if it had been drawn up from the lobby. “Platonic. Bonding. What in the hell does that even mean?”

“Soulmates, essentially. But non-romantic.”

“ _Soulmates_? Me…and...and _him?_ ” Douglas shook his head at the ridiculousness. "Of all people? That's absurd."

“Oh, thank you,” wheezed Martin stroppily from behind them, making his way unsteadily down to sit on the step above. Apparently too breathless to be properly offended, he leaned back to gasp in a little more air.

“I’m sorry, Martin. It’s just… _really_?”

“Seems so.” Martin didn’t look any happier than Douglas felt.

“I’ll see you chaps back upstairs,” said Herc, stretching to his feet with an annoyingly understanding glance at each of them. “I imagine you need to talk.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You look bloody awful,” said Douglas, watching Martin shudder deep breaths in and out, his hand rubbing rhythmic circles over his heart. “I thought you said you were feeling better?”

Martin coughed up a lung as he tilted his head back down to level a narrow stare straight into Douglas’s eyes. “I haven’t been able to manage the _lift_ for the past week. Haven’t really used the stairs since I moved in. All in all, I’d say making it down 5 flights _without_ _oxygen_ is a fairly marked improvement.”

Douglas’s hand had crept back to his own chest without him realising.

Martin was a bit more observant. He jutted his chin at Douglas’s hand. “I see you’re continuing to be perfectly fine yourself. Been getting a _lot_ of nosebleeds, have you?”

Douglas hadn’t even noticed, pulling out a hanky and dabbing shakily at his nose, swipes of blood colouring it in quick succession. He sank back against the wall. “All right. I’m not fine. I’m better than I was, though. I still don’t see how this is some kind of _bonding_ sickness. How in the blazes did Arthur manage to convince you all that this fairy story is true?”

Martin hesitated. “Maybe you should just read the book.” He held up a hand as Douglas drew a cantankerous breath. “I’m not…I’m not saying it _is_ true. Or even that I completely believe it. But…come on, Douglas. Until yesterday, I was genuinely considering whether to plan my own funeral. I’m sorry, but you looked much the same. And…and no one has been able to tell us _why_. Frankly, if believing in something slightly insane works as a cure, I’m all in.”

Douglas rearranged his face into his best dubious look.

Martin shook his head. “Just…read it. And afterwards…if you want…you’re welcome to stay here with me for a few days. We can just…see.”

Douglas shut his eyes for a long moment, before nodding his head once. He dragged himself to standing, one hand gripped tightly to the railing, holding out the other to help Martin to his feet. Even with his own diminished strength, he could feel how light Martin was. “Come on then, Captain Crieff. Onward and upward.”

They wobbled their way out to the third floor to call for the lift back up to Martin’s flat. Not a word was spoken about the way they leaned in to each other for support.

***

Douglas read the book. He ground his teeth and sighed and muttered and made sarky remarks…but he read it. Less fairy story, more history and psychology. He still thought it was hogwash, but he couldn’t deny the extensive list of symptoms – even listed in a curlicue font in what was nothing less than an old, illuminated manuscript – was a veritable checklist of his own. And Martin’s. Although so far he’d avoided either coma or death. So that was nice.

He was convinced enough to agree to Martin’s suggestion he stay. Though to be honest, it was an agreement at least partially fuelled by the desire to avoid the uncomfortable flight home for as long as possible.

Herc was flying back to London at the end of the week. He promised to drop Douglas home.

Carolyn had been busily doing loads of laundry and making Martin’s bed up with fresh sheets from the moment Douglas picked up the book.

Arthur had somehow acquired a spare single mattress and was occupied setting it up in the corner of Martin’s living room, swathing it with alarmingly colourful bedding patterned with cartoon aeroplanes. It was a process undertaken with an enormous grin, which would have been annoying if Douglas couldn’t read it clearly as relief, rather than “I told you so”.

Once they’d made the decision…and agreed not to mention the b-word or the s-word again, Douglas and Martin actually settled into a comfortable routine. The others had departed mid-afternoon, Carolyn leaving a large pile of sandwiches in the kitchen in a last flush of motherly care that had both Martin and Douglas squirming with discomfort.

By the end of the day, the sandwiches were gone.

By the end of the second day, Douglas had made a pot of soup from scratch, and instructed Martin on how to make a perfect loaf of crusty bread.

By the end of the third day, they’d managed a companionable walk around the block. Martin had tucked his oxygen tank out of the way in a corner of his bedroom, and they’d moved the painkillers into the kitchen, rather than cluttering the coffee table within easy reach.

The day before Douglas was due to leave, they strolled through one of the local parks and stayed out for a film and evening meal. When they clattered back into the flat later that night, they were breathless from taking three flights of stairs on foot. The black circles had disappeared from Martin’s eyes and Douglas’s skin was once more pinked with health.

It was indeed, a miracle.

***

Herc picked Douglas up early on the morning of his last day. It was surprising how much he’d enjoyed himself. Off the airfield, Martin was a lot less panicky and rule-obsessed. No longer reliant on the van for jobs, he seemed to have learned how to relax a bit, indulging in a little more frivolity and unveiling a wicked sense of humour that, while not on par with Douglas’s quick wit, nevertheless had him laughing at regular intervals. They’d engaged in numerous word games and trivia contests – which Martin had still lost – and chatted for hours at a time. It turned out they shared similar interests in films and novels…not to mention aviation. A couple of late nights resulted in a little soul-baring. Martin confiding about the more-than-obvious crippling insecurity that plagued him. Douglas admitting to the similarly destructive weight of three failed marriages.

There was no mistaking their health was much improved, but Douglas struggled to believe there was any kind of _bond_. They were friends, certainly. This visit had revealed, rather than changed that. Before, they’d both been too focused on work to really appreciate how well they got on, or to bother exploring that friendship outside Gerti. Taking each other for granted, really. Douglas had his daughters and social life to worry about, and Martin had always been busy doing his Man With A Van routine. But platonic or not, Douglas felt sure something supposedly so significant as a soulmate ought to inspire stronger feelings than this. For all that things had fallen apart, the intense rush of love and lust he’d felt for each of his wives, not to mention the crushing devotion he had for his daughters, could collapse mountains. By comparison, his fondness for Martin was a lukewarm glow that was easily ignored or forgotten.

He didn’t, of course, say any of this to Martin, who had lost the cadaver-like appearance with which he’d greeted them at the start of the week. They’d not mentioned the ludicrous bonding notion again, but despite Douglas’s usual apathy about superstition, on this occasion he thought Martin might be onto something with playing it safe and treating it as true. There was much to be said for the placebo effect.

They didn’t make any plans to meet up again, but they did swap Skype details. Herc clapped Martin on the back, and suggested he ring HR to report his recovered health. Douglas and Martin shook hands and gave each other a stupendously awkward one-armed embrace…and then Douglas was back in Herc’s car and watching the city zip past the windows on the way back to the airport.

***

Martin bustled about the flat, cleaning and tidying up. Sheets thrown into the washing machine, new mattress tucked up against the wall. He had the radio on and, for the first time in a long time, had enough breath to sing merrily along.

He’d booked a meeting with SA for that afternoon, and if the ache in his ches – which had dulled over the past few days – had sharpened to an intermittent twinge, he thought nothing of it. Soon he’d be back in the air, and everything would be right with the world.

***

They Skyped for the first time a week after Douglas returned home. Douglas was a better Skype partner than Arthur, not least because he actually knew how to work the webcam. To his advantage, of course. Douglas was as perfectly lit and angled as a newsreader, though with vastly more charm and humour. Nevertheless, Martin couldn’t help noticing how tired he looked.

Douglas was delighted. “Cleared to fly again, Captain. I’ve just done two back to back trips. Worth every moment of exhaustion.”

Martin grinned. “Good to see Carolyn is as ruthless as ever…Captain.” After her performance in Zurich, he didn’t doubt that Carolyn had, in fact, coddled Douglas somewhat. Her concern was tangible when she’d brought him over, but she was wily enough to supply care discreetly and avoid bruising Douglas’s pride. “SA have only had me back on limited flights. Strict policy. But it’s _fantastic_ to be back in the sky.”

Fantastic it might have been. But when Martin passed out _again_ , six weeks later – this time while at the controls – he was sympathetically, but no less finally, fired.


	6. Chapter 6

“Christ in heaven,” said Douglas in alarm as Herc helped Martin out of the car. “What in the hell happened?”

Martin looked up from where he’d been coughing blood into a tissue. “Dunno. Was all rubbish, I suppose. ’m back to square one.”

He looked Douglas over. “I see _you’re_ not.” He sighed sadly. “Sorry. Of course I don’t _want_ you to be sick. I just…if Arthur’s theory had been right, I might have had a chance.” His breath rattled in his chest.

Douglas hid his face as he reached into the boot to pull out Martin’s suitcases, suppressing a flinch as the move pulled his raw skin, then followed Herc – who was practically holding Martin up – into the front room of his house.

“The guest room is already made up if you want to lie down…or I’ve a fire going in the living room.”

Martin tossed his head towards the sofa, visible from the doorway, and Douglas pushed the front door closed with one foot before taking the cases into the spare room.

The room was as cheery and cosy as he could make it. He’d promised Martin a roof over his head for as long as he needed it while he settled back into Fitton. Carolyn had optimistically suggested that Martin could return to MJN – paid, albeit not as well as at Swiss Air – on a part-time basis, once he was feeling better. Obviously she hadn’t understood how sick Martin was.

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the dressing table mirror and checked his back. Faint specks of blood were starting to ooze through his T-shirt on his shoulder. He peeled the fabric loose so it was less obvious. Carolyn hadn’t any idea her current Captain was at less than full health, either.

He turned just as Herc wandered in with a box. He eyed Douglas with unnerving consideration. “There are two more boxes in the car. If you could get the one that’s taped up, that’s lighter. I’ll get the other.” He put the one he was carrying down in the corner of the room. “I don’t want you making your back any worse.”

Douglas rolled his eyes indignantly. Herc pushed him gently so his back was to the mirror. He looked over his shoulder; there was a darker, fresher stain of blood nearer his spine that he hadn’t noticed before. He shrugged Herc’s hand off and strode out the front to collect the rest of Martin’s things.

Ten minutes later, everything Martin owned, still packed, was piled in a sad stack along the wall under the window. Douglas had on a fresh shirt and was wrapped in his thickest cardigan as he set a pot of tea brewing. Herc was helping Martin set up his oxygen tank.

“Thank you again,” said Martin softly, as Douglas made his way into the lounge with the tray.

“Not at all, Martin. It’s my turn, after all. And I rather rattle around in this house on my own. Nice to have some company, really.”

Martin managed a small smile as he took one of the mugs, warming his hands around it, despite being so close to the flickering flames that only the fire guard seemed to keep him from actually curling up on the burning logs.

Herc had shrugged off his jacket, evidently finding the heat of the room stifling rather than soothing. He looked between the two men as he stirred milk into his own cup.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Get for you?”

“We’ll be perfectly fine, Herc,” snapped Douglas, unable to curb his irritation even though, or possibly because, Herc had seen straight through his own lie.

Even more annoyingly, Herc didn’t rise to it; settling back in his chair with a half nod and blowing over the top of his tea. “I’ll tell Carolyn and Arthur to give you a bit of time before they descend.” He aimed his words at Martin, but flashed a warning glance at Douglas. “I imagine you’ll want to settle in a bit, and no doubt you have some serious talking to do. Again.”

Martin just hummed agreement, eyes shut as he sipped at his drink, the warmth apparently soothing his throat. He hadn’t coughed for a good ten minutes. Douglas grunted, shuffling forward to top up his own cup and add another spoonful of sugar.

Eventually Herc departed. Douglas left Martin dozing while he went to the kitchen to make a light supper. Martin wobbled in just as he was taking his evening dose of prescription painkillers.

“Are you all right, Douglas?” His gaze twitched from Douglas to the labelled packet he’d left on the counter. Thankfully, Martin was too polite to read someone else’s medication. Less thankfully, he chose to communicate his concern with a gentle hand between Douglas’s shoulder blades. Soft as it was, the touch was like sandpaper on an open wound, and he couldn’t help jerking out of it – which only made it worse as his shirt rasped over his flesh. Water splashed out of the glass he’d been drinking from.

Martin stepped shakily back, dismay all over his face, one hand massaging his own chest, right above his heart. “Sorry, Douglas. I didn’t...”

Douglas was still hissing breath between his teeth, but by Martin’s embarrassed expression, it was clear he wasn’t apologising for causing pain… just for touching him, invading his personal space. Unwilling to introduce more awkwardness by letting that misapprehension of rejection lie, he shook his head.

“It’s not…It’s fine. I just, um…I’m not quite as well as you…or anyone else seems to think.” Douglas put his water glass back down and slid the half-full blister pack back into the box where it lay next to Martin’s hand.

“It’s probably easier, if I just…” He carefully shrugged the cardigan off and draped it over the nearest kitchen chair, then winced as he slowly peeled it off his T-shirt, turning so Martin could see his back. “I hope you’re not squeamish.”

His back, he knew, was slashed with crimson lesions. Some were raised, pus-filled welts. Some were split. Some of the skin was purple-black like bruising. Ordinarily he kept it bandaged as best he could, but he’d wanted to let it breathe while he was home.

He wasn’t standing that close to Martin, but he felt the breeze of his breath as he exhaled hard.

“Jesus Christ, Douglas. You look like you’ve been flayed.”

“I imagine this is how it would feel, too. Started a couple of weeks ago.” He turned so Martin could see the flush of stripes and weals and splotches that were coming up across his chest. “You’ll be unsurprised to learn that the doctors can’t find any reason for this, either.”

Martin had paled considerably. An impressive feat, given he’d been parchment-white to begin with. He lowered himself into the becardiganned chair, sitting sideways and apparently subconsciously kneading the wool of the garment. “I don’t understand. How are you flying? That looks…”

“Incredibly painful?” He pinched out a laugh. “It is. But you of all people must understand I’d do anything to fly? Luckily, I happen to have a friend from medical school who was willing to do me a favour. These,” he waved a hand at the painkillers, “plus a rather revolting ointment take care of the worst of it. Without any side effects.”

“Except addiction,” said Martin, grabbing the box and reading worriedly through the warnings.

“Well, there’s a price for everything,” he replied glibly, not mentioning the daily application of make-up that hid the lesions crawling up his neck. Or the more regularly required hair dye that covered the white salting his already increased pepper-grey. “I didn’t really expect to be on them long enough for that to be a problem.”

By Martin’s face, he understood Douglas didn’t mean he thought he’d be _cured_ before addiction took him.

“On the bright side, if we’re both sick, it’s possible cohabitation _might_ help, like it did last time.”

“Arthur _was_ quite insistent I take up your offer of hospitality,” mused Martin.

“Weren’t you going to?”

“I…I didn’t want to put you out. I don’t know how long it will take me to find somewhere to live, especially when I’m like this,” Martin waved a hand at himself. “It’s not like when you came to stay with me.”

“Poppycock,” retorted Douglas. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you like, I told you. Besides, if we are… what we are, it’s likely we’re going to have to spend quite a bit of time around each other.”

Martin’s face twisted. “‘ _Have_ to’? I’m not sure…”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ye-es. I do. The thing is, Douglas, that’s a bit…How can we possibly be bonded…be _soul mates_ if that’s how you feel about it? Aren’t soul mates meant to enjoy one another’s company? It’s not…not supposed to be a…a _punishment_.” Martin was wheezing a bit by now. “Sorry, I’ll just…” he staggered to his feet, clearly intending to head back to the living room where his oxygen was.

Douglas darted forward, supporting Martin by one arm as he helped him back through. “Surely _you’re_ not all right with this, Martin?” He lowered him into the chair by the fire and crouched next to it, absently rubbing at the deep ache in his own chest.

Martin adjusted his breathing tube wearily. “Well not with _this._ ” He meant the illness plaguing both of them. Douglas dropped both his hands to his lap, fighting the urge to help with the tangled tubing. “But I didn’t have as much trouble believing Arthur as you did. I don’t…I’m not that close to my family. A-a-and for one reason or another, I don’t have a lot of friends. Never have had, ’til MJN. So.” He sighed a little as he finally got the tubes straight. Looked like he was fighting a losing battle with his eyelids.

Doulas bit down a knot of guilt and tenderness as Martin’s eyelashes fluttered.

“I’m sorry, Douglas. It’s probably my fault. Arthur’s great, obviously. We’re definitely friends and he was…he was the one who stayed in touch…after I left. I just. Well. After flying together as long as we did. I guess you’re the one I felt most connected to. I didn’t know that would…well. That would _mean_ anything. And I know it wasn’t the same for you. I just—”

“—I missed you,” Douglas admitted, finally; interrupting Martin’s stuttering flow. “I didn’t get in touch after you left because I didn’t think we had that sort of friendship. Not sure I’ve ever had that kind of relationship with anyone, except my wives… But it’s not been the same, flying without you. That’s why, and I will deny I said this if you ever bring it up in front of anyone again, but that’s why I was willing to let Arthur and Carolyn talk me into coming out to Zurich. God knows, the trip was bloody awful. But I was seriously unwell and I thought…If I’m honest, I thought it might be my last chance to see you.”

Martin managed a faint smile and reached down to squeeze Douglas’s hand briefly, once. “Me too.” It was unclear whether he meant now, or last time.

Douglas cleared his throat. “If this _is_ a… soul mate thing then…we’re _both_ sick, aren’t we? It’s obviously not one-sided, however you, or I, think I feel. I’ve no objection to sharing my house with you, Martin. I’m just conscious that if we really do have to stay in close proximity for the rest of our lives, it could make _life_ a bit awkward and restrictive for both of us. Quite difficult to explain to a potential intended that you’ve already got a ‘platonic soul mate’ and that while the position of ‘love of your life’ is still open, she’s going to have to accept your bonded as a housemate.” He paused for a moment as Martin seemed to think this over. “What did you tell the lovely princess? From what I hear, you were barely cleared to fly back home. How are you going to make that relationship work, long-distance _and_ with me taking up half your time?”

Martin blinked in confusion. “Theresa and I broke up months ago, Douglas. But I see your point. From what Arthur says—”

“You’ve been _talking_ to Arthur about this?”

“Well who else was I going to talk to? He knows that book backwards. Seems to understand the whole idea. No one else has ever even _heard_ of platonic bonding.”

“What about Carolyn?”

“Carolyn only knows about it because of Arthur. I can’t believe you haven’t spoken to him, or her about this. You _work_ with them.”

“Yes... But neither of them know about this,” Douglas pointed at his back. “I um…”

“Didn’t want to worry them?”

“Didn’t want to lose my job, actually, but your version sounds better.” He contemplated for a moment, flexing his shoulder. “Though they probably know now. Herc pretty much sprung me today.”

Martin scoffed. “Carolyn’s not an idiot. I’m sure she knew _something_ was up. Anyway,” Martin glossed over Douglas’s furrowed brow. “My point was that we probably don’t need to live together. At least, not if this works and we get better, like last time. But properly, completely healthy. As long as we maintain regular contact, and probably stay in the same country at least, we should be fine.”

“Arthur told you this?”

“Arthur a-and…my own research.”

“I see.”

“Don’t worry, Douglas,” Martin finally shut his eyes properly, sinking back into the chair with a quiet exhale, one hand tucked flat against his breastbone. “Like you said before, it’s a fairy story. It might all be a load of rubbish. And then it won’t matter.”

Douglas sat there on the floor for another 20 minutes, long after it was obvious Martin had fallen asleep. The part of him that resented the kind of restrictions such a bond would place on either of their lives was, he admitted to himself as he watched his friend descend into the deep sleep of the exhausted, rather outweighed by the desire for more time on this earth.

And from what he recalled, fairy stories, the real ones, were a lot darker and more visceral than the candy-coloured versions Disney put about. The originals, whether made-up for fun or created to control potentially wayward villagers, tended to involve a lot more pain and suffering to get to the moral.

He pulled a tissue from his pocked and dabbed at his shoulder to check it was no longer bleeding. Or worse.

It wasn’t.

With a huff, he dragged himself to his feet, grateful that the painkillers had kicked in and that the food he’d made earlier could sit happily in the oven. One look at Martin suggested the poor man would be too weak to handle unpacking himself, so he returned to Martin’s room and finished setting everything up; unloading the suitcases into the drawers and onto hangers, and emptying the contents of the boxes onto the wall shelves. Spare kitchenware and other items Martin wouldn’t need he left boxed in the foot of the wardrobe. The few books Martin owned, a mix of flight manuals and what looked like aged storybooks, he placed on the central shelf of the narrow bookcase near the bed. He only glanced at the covers; they all seemed to be variations on the book Arthur had shown them. Except one: a tattered, gilt-edged collection of ancient legends. He flicked through to the contents page, but he hadn’t heard of any of the tales. He closed it and returned with it to the living room to read by the fire…and keep an eye on Martin’s shuddering breaths.


	7. Chapter 7

“The problem is there are no case studies,” said Douglas, passing Martin another glass to dry.

“Case studies?” Martin had learned his way around Douglas’s kitchen quickly; the glass went unerringly into the correct cupboard.

“For this.” _This_. The code word for the situation/relationship in which the two of them had found themselves. Douglas still winced any time the words “soul mate” or “bond” were spoken out loud. “Legends and myths are all very well, but they’re fictional accounts set in the middle ages when villages were smaller and more compact, and when people didn’t usually travel so often or so far. The world is different now… but is _this_?” Douglas sent suds flying as he gestured vaguely without looking at Martin. “Staying in touch via phone or email or Skype didn’t work last time. So how do we _know_ what will be safe to try?”

“We don’t.” Martin was matter of fact, taking up position at the second sink and carefully emptying the water from the soaking pans at Douglas’s elbow while Douglas scrubbed the cutlery. “All we can do is try. At least we know what to look out for. And…” He seemed to hesitate.

“And?”

“Well, last time we were improved after a few days. But Arth–…I mean, _I_ think the problem is we had previously been seeing each other very regularly. We worked together, in pretty close proximity, and we spent a fair bit of downtime together too, when we had layovers. And then we went months in different countries without even speaking. It might just be a case of…of …um …weaning off each other a bit?”

“Hmmm…” said Douglas, adding more hot water and fairy liquid to the sink. They were both much healthier after only a couple of days together. Impossible to deny Arthur’s theory at this point. Douglas was still using the salve, and Martin still had to use the oxygen in the evenings, but they’d managed a walk around the neighbourhood today – Martin walking without support and Douglas without flinching at the rub of his coat across his shoulders.

“You know Carolyn’s willing to take you back on. A couple of weeks and I think we’ll both be back to rights if this keeps up.” Douglas scrubbed a little harder at the baking tin. “Assuming you want to come back to MJN, that would put us back the way we were, lifestyle-wise, before you left.”

Martin nodded his agreement as he sorted the dried cutlery into the right trays in the drawer. Douglas set the last of the pans to drain as he swished out the sink with clean water.

“Carolyn said she’d pay me this time,” admitted Martin. “She’ll only take me back as FO, but I’ll be able to earn money. So…I mean, I’ll need a little time to put enough aside, but I should be able to get out of your hair fairly quickly.”

Douglas plucked off his rubber gloves, draping them to dry over the tap then turning to where Martin was twisting the soggy tea towel between his hands. He leaned forward and pulled it away. “There’s absolutely no hurry, Martin. I told you, I quite like sharing my living space with someone else, and I’d rather you stayed here and got completely well before we even think about the next step.”

Martin’s hands had gravitated to his chest again. Douglas refrained from comment – the towel in his own hands was the only thing preventing him from mirroring the gesture. Any mention of Martin leaving seemed to cause a sharp twinge and he could only assume the same was true for his friend.

“I don’t know about you, but my body has been put through the wringer these past months. Even if we stop suffering symptoms, it’s going to take a while to get properly better…and I can’t help thinking it might be _easier_ if we’re living together.”

Martin appeared to untense a little. “Okay. But… I’ll keep an eye on the rental listings anyway. Just in case. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style with any of those stewardesses.” With a cheeky half grin and a farewell tap of his knuckles against the worktop, Martin swivelled on his heel and disappeared into the living room.

 

***

 

In fact, it was another month before Martin had his breathing under control and felt fit enough, with the agreement of the doctors, to get airborne again. Douglas had, of course, been flying the whole time, but he’d stopped his secret makeup rituals and his back, while covered in fading scars, was no longer a painful mess of welts.

The morning of their first flight together, Martin was practically vibrating with excitement. His “useless replacement” (and it took Martin an embarrassingly long time to realise the poor bloke’s name was _not_ Stan…which was actually short for “stand-in”, a nickname Douglas had apparently bequeathed him in the first week for the crime of not being Martin) had been relegated to back-up status, allowing Carolyn to finally meet Mr Alyakin’s requirements, without lying or having to stump up too much extra cash. It also meant that Martin could take his time getting back into the routine. A short hop to Paris and back was one thing, but Carolyn had refused to schedule him for anything longer until he “survived” – her word – a few day trips.

It took Martin the entire flight to Paris to get used to being on the “wrong” side of Gerti. He had the odd sensation of being off-kilter, an imaginary breeze filtering down his left-hand side where he was used to having a wall and window. He was oddly twitchy, despite having spent enough time at Swiss Air flying in the same position that he ought to be used to it.

Douglas let him do the landing, always his favourite, but balanced out the magnanimous gesture by peppering all their communications with smug “First Officer Crieff”s… giving Martin plenty of time to conclude that while his duh-duh duh-duh _pfft_ name might have been lacking, DUH duh-duh-duh DUH-duh _pffft_ was vastly worse. Arthur was calling Douglas “skip” and Martin “not-skip”, which didn’t particularly help.

But he was flying. There was blue-ish sky on all sides, and a warm glow in his chest, and he could _breathe_. Colours seemed brighter, sounds more melodious, vision sharper. It was glorious, and he couldn’t really bring himself to be less than delirious with happiness – and relief at being back where he belonged. As they pulled up to the hangar, he shared a beaming glance with Douglas. The sparkle of teasing amusement in Douglas’s eyes was softened by the fact that the grin on his face was obviously genuine.

For once Carolyn turned a blind eye to the expense, treating them all to a half-decent meal in one of the better airport restaurants, before they met up with their terribly-busy-and-important-businessman after his city centre meeting and flew him back home.

Martin was so happy that actually using Gerti to get home seemed like a mere formality; he was light as air and felt as if he could have soared home using nothing but his own buoyant joy. Only the weight of the backlog of paperwork waiting for him back at Fitton anchored him to the ground upon their return, and that was completed with a merrily tuneful hum, even as he frowned in concentration.

 

***

 

“You’re on your own tonight, Martin.” Douglas was sliding his arms into a rather smart looking blazer that Martin had never seen him bother with before. “I’ve got rather promising plans for the evening.” He ran a hand through already perfectly styled locks and tweaked his collar as he gazed out the window at the sparkling lights of Budapest city centre. “Don’t wait up!” He departed with a wink and a grin just this side of leering, leaving Martin blinking bemused at the door for a good few moments after he left.

Well then. Room service it was. Knowing his luck he’d stumble on Douglas and his evening’s romance if he ventured out alone, and while he was sure they’d both weather any awkwardness, he had no desire to intrude, even accidentally; even if it was only a low risk.

He left his change of clothes in his flight bag and took out his pyjamas instead; he’d had more than enough time to explore cities and landmarks on his own when he was at SA. He may not have had a particularly long career with them, but he flew enough times to learn that the crew didn’t really socialise together during layovers.

Or more correctly, they didn’t socialise with him. He’d had dinner with Herc the few times they’d worked together and he’d picked up from comments that that was considered unusual. Looking back, he was rather certain that it wasn’t the captain socialising with his first officer that was odd, so much as Martin personally being included.

He laid his night clothes on the bathroom vanity and started the shower, removing the last bits of his uniform as the water heated up and the room filled with steam. Never mind. The dream job that wasn’t was over now, and he was back among friendly faces. He folded his clothes and left them on the lid of the lavatory then stepped into the small cubicle, the hot stream an instant relief. He rolled his shoulders in contentment. Douglas was undoubtedly going to charm his way into a thoroughly pleasant evening… and morning after. Which meant Martin, for once, had the TV and the menu all to himself.

He lathered the tiny soap and scrubbed luxuriously at his skin. With any luck there’d be a history channel available in the room and he could settle in with a war documentary or something. He and Douglas shared a love of many things, but “anything with the faintest scrap of aviation in it” wasn’t generally one of them, and Douglas usually took control of the remote.

Fair enough too, since it was his house. Martin tipped his face up into the burning spray, letting it pummel his eyelids and pour over his lips. It was cosy really. They got along much better than he’d expected, somehow slotting easily into regular routines that ebbed and flowed around each other. It was the little things – like ceding television control – that made it all feel so very domestic. And the same things that made nights “off” from each other a pleasure, without friction.

He turned the taps off, blinking water from his eyelashes as he reached for his towel and huffing to himself at the innuendo…and pathetic nature of his personal circumstances. Here he was, blissful at the idea of a night with the TV…and there was Douglas, desperate for friction of a different kind.

Martin rubbed himself dry and wrapped the towel round his waist, running a hand meditatively over his chest and the warm buzz that sat promisingly under his skin. The bond was like a living thing – well of course it was, he and Douglas were both _alive_ – but at times it almost throbbed, hard enough that he was always surprised when he couldn’t press his hand to feel the thrum as easily as he could his own heartbeat vibrating his ribs.

It was deeper than that, Arthur had explained. And not so physical. But Martin had never managed to break the habit of rubbing his chest to soothe himself, even now it no longer ached.

He grabbed both sets of his clothes, daring, since Douglas was out, to strip off the towel and change in the bedroom proper, where the air was a little more brisk but less thick and heady with steam.

He hung the towel to dry, then curled himself contentedly on his bed with the spare pillows and blankets from the wardrobe, the room service menu and the TV remote.


	8. Chapter 8

Martin thumbed meditatively at the rest of the rental pages, but nothing seemed quite so promising as that first listing. It was perfect, really. A studio flat with its own bathroom, within budget and only a couple of streets away from Douglas. He could go to a viewing next week.

He clenched his fist against the twinge the thought of leaving caused. If anything it was more reason to go. It had been six months and they were both hale and hearty now, but Martin worried that the longer he stayed, the tighter the bond would become, and then leaving at all might be physically impossible. Again.

Already the bond felt a little too constricting – like a shoe laced up too tight. And Douglas was right about the interference to their daily lives. Douglas’s Budapest beauty had become a little more than a one-night stand, and though Douglas never mentioned it – barely even mentioned _her_ – it was clear that if Martin’s presence wasn’t a problem now, it almost certainly would be in the not so distant future. From what little Martin had gleaned, the lady in question was on the crew of another airline. While she and Douglas had so far been content to hook up whenever and wherever their flight paths crossed, Martin was ever aware that this was thrice-married Douglas. However much he might play up the part of having a lover in every airport, Martin had never actually seen Douglas in pursuit of anything less than true love. It was inevitable that these months of dalliances would be leading somewhere more serious and long-term, and he didn’t want to sour Douglas’s happiness with the prospect of an awkward “three’s-a-crowd” conversation. Douglas had driven out to London to meet with her that afternoon, second time this month; it was only a matter of time before he invited her back to Fitton and the last thing Martin wanted was to get in the way.

He gave into the urge to massage his sternum as a particularly sharp pang stabbed through him – as it always did when he thought too hard about sharing his soul mate with anyone else. It was one of the reasons he’d made no attempt to meet anyone himself; even the thought of causing Douglas any similar pain or disruption was unpalatable. He was certain Douglas was unaware of the effect his relationship was having on Martin, but the nature of their bond was such that Douglas’s own happiness soothed even as its cause chafed.

Martin knew the entire situation was an indication of just how unhealthy this forced co-dependency was becoming. They couldn’t live like this forever. Nodding decisively to himself, he tore out the relevant ad and tucked it in the diary by his bed, then wandered back out to the living room to read for a while, a faint hum of anticipatory contentment warming his insides against an even fainter tug on the bond.

 

It was his own cry that woke him on the sofa nearly an hour later; hips thrusting into the air as he came hard in his own underwear. He pressed a horrified hand down between his legs, thankful he was alone. The worst part was he hadn’t even been dreaming about anything titillating. The warm buzz of sated arousal hummed uncomfortably under his skin. It felt wrong, not just dirty or unexpected, but like it didn’t fit.

Like it wasn’t his own.

Understanding thundered into him and he barely rolled off the couch and into the bathroom in time to vomit into the toilet. When he finished, he was shaky; his body unable to cope with two such intense extremes. He gasped for breath, slightly teary and pressing hard at _that point_ on his ribs in a fruitless attempt to crush the emotions plucking viciously at the bond.

 

 

Nearly 100 miles away, Douglas sat up with a start, clutching desperately at his chest as he tried to swallow down a flood of nauseating terror and confusion…and dislodging Elise from where she was tucked languorously against his still-sweat-damp shoulder.

His first thought was that he was having a heart attack, and from the worried look on Elise’s face she was assuming the same. But though his heart was pounding in his chest, underneath he could feel the _bond_ stretched taut as a wire, trembling as if under the weight of hundreds of spiders tap dancing along it. It was a hideous, tickling sensation that no amount of rubbing could dispel.

He was only half aware of Elise reaching out to him as he clawed at his chest and threw himself out of the bed and into the bathroom.

He locked the door behind him, ignoring Elise’s increasingly distraught cries, and stared into the mirror. His eyes were shining, his face a little pale. There were already-fading, self-imposed pink scratch marks on his chest, but otherwise nothing to see. He took some calming breaths, counting shakily as he breathed _in-in-in-in-in-in_ and _out-oooout—ooooouuut_. He garnered enough composure to reply reassuringly to his lover, then turned the shower on as hot and hard as it would go… scrubbing and scrubbing at his skin.

He emerged, rubbed red-raw and towel-clad but slightly less shaky, 20 minutes later. Elise was dressed… and significantly _more_ shaky than when he’d left her. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears and he felt his stomach dip as he realised how worried she had been. She looked steps away from having called an ambulance. He wrapped her in a firm embrace and murmured soothingly until they were both properly calm. Only once she had fallen asleep, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, did he consider actually phoning Martin.

It was 2am. There was no answer.

 

And there was no answer when he rang after breakfast the next morning, either. Elise was leaving early for the flight back to Switzerland, but he noticed her eyeing him speculatively. He made a concerted effort to keep up the flirting jokes, but when they kissed goodbye, she pressed a hand meaningfully against his chest, and it was only by faking an incoming call that he was able to avoid the suggestion to see a doctor that he knew was coming.

As soon as they were out of each other’s sight, he ran for the car park, putting another (unanswered) call through to Martin as he did so.

It was a surprise, then, to find Martin perfectly well and humming along to the radio when he burst into the house two hours later.

Martin looked up with a frown at the slam of the front door, blinking in confusion at Douglas’s evidently harried state and bringing a hand meditatively up to his chest.

“Are you all right, Douglas?”

“Am _I_ …?” Douglas looked Martin up and down, finally registering the uncharacteristically casual tracksuit pants and clinging vest in which Martin was dressed.

Martin stepped back a little under the scrutiny, knocking into what Douglas realised was one of several full rubbish bags in the entryway of the lounge.

His breath finally caught up with him and he sat in the nearest armchair, glancing around at where various shelves and objects were just slightly out of alignment. “What’s going on?”

Martin dropped his hand from his chest in favour of rubbing at his neck. “I, um, found a place. To live. Move to.”

Douglas eyed him uncertainly. “What, since yesterday?” They’d had lunch together before he left for London. Martin hadn’t uttered a word about leaving.

Martin wouldn’t meet his gaze. “It seemed like time.” He shrugged. “I found a place….round the corner, actually. I um…went to view it this morning. Signed pretty much on the spot. I mean, they’re doing a check and everything but… Sorry.” He held up his phone. “It was out of batteries. I didn’t even see the missed calls.”

“No, that’s…” An uncomfortable suspicion trickled into his mind as he watched Martin shifting awkwardly, bare foot to bare foot. He was still avoiding eye contact and there was a trembling tang of apprehension pulling at their bond. “Did something happen, Martin?”

“No, of course not!” If Martin’s panicky high pitch hadn’t undermined him, the incredible blush that lit his face would have done. They both pretended not to notice as Martin insisted, “It just seemed like time.”

“Right. So not caused by anything that might have happened at around…” He made a show of looking at his watch and calculating backwards… “Eleven…eleven-thirty last night?”

“Douglas.” It was incredible how Martin’s blushes could reverse course so quickly. He hadn’t seen the other man look so pale since…well….since they were both so sick.

The invisible, intangible cord of the bond was quivering now. Like a telegraph wire rattled by the wind.

“Only Elise thought I was having a heart attack. And we’d been having _such_ a good—” He cut himself off as a look of distress twisted Martin’s face and he sidestepped another bag of his belongings to step back, one hand raised beseechingly. All the confirmation he needed that he’d accidentally shared his night of passion.

“Ah. Yes. I wondered. Martin, I’m sorry, I had _no_ —”

Martin actually shuddered. “No. Douglas. I’m sorry. It was….intrusive. I mean, I couldn’t help…. but yes. All right. That’s why. Well, one reason why. It’s why I’m going _now_ …but I think it was time. You’re going to want space if you and—?”

“Elise.”

“Right. _Elise_. If you and she want to spend more time together. Like you said. Impossible to build up a romantic relationship with your soul mate hanging around on-site.”

Martin smiled tightly and honestly, but both hands were fisted by his side and his use of the term soul mate was deliberate. Douglas might have come around to “bond” but he still avoided the other.

“There was no rush, Martin. I’d be happy for you two to meet. She’s over fairly regularly, but as you know, Swiss Airways doesn’t usually do long stopovers in Lon—”

“—Swiss Airways?” Martin’s voice was a little croaky.

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I thought you knew.”

“No,” said Martin slowly. “You haven’t really…I thought you met her in Budapest. Um…Elise who?”

“I did meet her in Budapest. We met in the lounge during that stopover. You know her, I think? Elise Deroche?”

Martin’s face was impassive as he nodded in recognition. So Douglas was entirely unprepared for the dagger of raw _hurt_ through the bond that folded him helplessly, breathlessly in half in his chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I don’t know if this is already common knowledge. JF probably mentioned it on his blog already, but here’s a new-to-me probably-not-a-coincidence fun fact! http://fly.historicwings.com/2013/03/the-baroness-of-flight/)


	9. Chapter 9

“Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry, Douglas.” Martin darted forward to rub soothingly at Douglas’s back, encouraging him to take slow, deep breaths. “I was trying not to… This is _exactly_ why I need to move out.”

“I don’t…” Douglas leaned back to draw air. “You don’t… _Elise_?”

Martin felt a mix of guilt and jealousy begin a poisonous ooze along the bond towards him. Douglas had put two and two together and got five.

“No! No. Not like that. We were _definitely_ never like _that_.” Martin couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. Even if he could have held it back, the expression on Douglas’s face said the bond had, once again, revealed Martin’s thoughts.

He felt his cheeks heat. “She doesn’t know you work with me, does she?”

Douglas’s turn to blush. “She doesn’t even know I work for MJN. It’s never really come up.” Because Douglas was a master manipulator of conversations as well as people. Martin had no doubt he managed to steer every conversation so that it seemed he’d revealed everything to his lover without ever actually giving away a thing. How long had _they_ worked together before he even learned Douglas was _married_?

“Well,” Martin straightened to stand. “You’re probably best advised never to let on.”

Douglas actually recoiled from the emotions Martin could no longer restrain. Martin could feel them sparking away from him like little electric shocks.

“What did she do?” Douglas breathed, obviously assuming something truly dire.

“Nothing!” Martin reassured, embarrassed by what he considered an overreaction on his part. “Not…exactly. Not really.” He wiped a hand over his face. It wasn’t entirely impossible to hide one’s true feelings over the bond, and he’d got quite good at controlling it, but he owed Douglas the honesty. For a moment he let him feel the full spectrum of his own humiliation, and shame, and remembered unhappiness. Douglas looked a little shell-shocked. Martin did his best to rein it all back in as he fetched Douglas a glass of water from the kitchen and crouched opposite the chair.

“I told you my SA interview didn’t go that well.” He passed the glass over. Douglas sat clutching it, but didn’t drink. “That was a bit of an understatement.”

He explained the farce that had been the interview. Not just the ploy to get him over to Zurich, but every one of his missteps during the interview itself. His mortifying confession. And Elise’s all-too-evident disgust when Oskar had had insisted on hiring him anyway. “She didn’t actually do anything underhand. She just…made sure people knew…all about me. By the time I started, I was a bit of a joke. No one wanted to fly with the loser pilot who admitted he couldn’t fly a plane. And _no one_ wanted to socialise with the guy who. Well. You can imagine. You’ve seen my efforts at being ‘charming’…even before I’ve offended everyone in the room.”

To his credit, Douglas didn’t even crack a smile at that.

“I thought you were happy at SA,” he said. “I mean, apart from the sickness, you seemed in quite high spirits.”

“I was!” Martin squeezed Douglas’s knee in reassurance. “I loved _flying_ with SA... And obviously, flying with _Herc_ was fine. I told you before. I’ve never really been good with people. Never had friends, really, until MJN. So…I mean, I didn’t _love_ how it all worked out… but I’d never really expected to be close to anyone. It wouldn’t be the first time I shared a flight deck with someone who didn’t want to talk to me. I just… I had to fly with Elise a few times…well. Sit next to her while _she_ flew the plane. She never let me touch the controls. Anyway… she made it very clear not only how little she thought of me, but that she’d found out about MJN and knew that I…well…that I didn’t come from a ‘real’ job. With a ‘real’ airline. So… I can’t imagine anything ruining your chances with her… _except_ finding out about MJN. And me. I’m not sure even the seductive powers of Captain Douglas Richardson would be enough to counterbalance the loser legacy of Martin Crieff. If she doesn’t remember your name from my references then…”

“You’re proposing that I lie to her?”

“No! …Yes? I don’t know.” Martin took his hand away from Douglas’s knee to rub fretfully at the lint on his own.

“You. The same man who took me to task for misdirecting my own wife in a similar manner, would like me to lie to my girlfriend?”

Martin sighed. Remorse bubbled in his gut as he contemplated that his own ineptitude was now affecting Douglas’s life.

Except… “Hang on a minute. You said she didn’t know where you work. So you’re already lying to her!”

“Ah. Yes.” Douglas took a swig of the water, then rested the glass on the arm of his chair, tapping the fingers of his other hand on the opposite chair arm. “But… you were right to tell me off last time; look how that turned out. I had planned to invite Elise to Fitton, maybe even come clean about everything. But now…”

Martin bowed his head, eyes downcast.

“No. Martin. Surely you can’t expect me to start or stay in a relationship with someone who made your life hell?”

Yes, actually. That was exactly what he’d expected.

Douglas _tsked_. Moved the glass of water onto a side table and leaned forward, tilting Martin’s chin back up with two fingers. “Martin. You’re my soul mate. I know I haven’t been very _gracious_ about this situation but after all these months I thought you’d worked out that I _care_? How can I not?” He dropped his hand from Martin’s face but stared deliberately into his eyes. “It goes both ways, you know. Anything that affects me, affects you.”

Martin twitched at the reminder of the previous night’s experience, but Douglas, despite a faint blush, continued, “Anything that affects _you_ affects _me_ , too.”

Martin resisted commenting. That might be true, but from where he was sitting, Douglas only seemed to worry about that when the effect discomposed or inconvenienced him in some significant way.

Which, actually, seemed fairly reasonable. That was why he was leaving, wasn’t it? So they could each build their own lives without too much interference? They couldn’t each spend all their time moderating every thought and feeling in case the other got a bit of an emotional pang.

Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, or escaped through their link. Douglas’s mouth was set in a line. “I’m going to make a phone call.”

Unlike Martin, Douglas really hadn’t mastered shielding his emotions over the bond. Martin wasn’t sure if he’d ever even tried – it probably required a level of acceptance that Douglas still hadn’t reached. Guilt weighed him down as he felt the soft purr that had been filtering contentedly across from Douglas’s side for weeks twist into a twinge he was startled to realise he recognised. Bitter notes of betrayal – Elise’s not his; there was a definite feminine tone – mingled with a tired, aching sense of inevitability. He'd felt the same thing when Douglas and Helena had split, though he hadn't even known he _was_ feeling it until now. He swallowed hard and sat back on his heels.

Douglas left the room without another word, leaving Martin to finish gathering his last few possessions from the lounge and return them to the open cardboard box in his own.

 

***

 

The phone call did not go well. Until recently, Martin would never have believed his cavalier co-pilot was capable of experiencing anxiety, but there it was, pounding through the bond. He knew the moment the call turned nasty. There were no raised voices — he couldn’t even hear Douglas, locked away at the other end of the house — but he was forced to give up on packing after the third needle-sharp shot down the bond. He sat on the edge of the bed and made himself breathe calmly and deeply. Fists clenched against the guilt he refused to let Douglas feel; no need to make things worse. He concentrated on being blank, on giving Douglas emotional space.

Thankfully, the call was reasonably short. The thump of Douglas’s feet on the floorboards and the red-hot burn of anger and…humiliation? …was enough to warn him the call was over.

“Stop hiding.” Douglas’s voice was gruff outside his room. “I’m making tea.” Stomping footsteps following that not-terribly-inviting comment echoed towards the kitchen.

Martin heaved a breath in, and himself off the bed, and made his tentative way into the same room.

Douglas glowered up from where he was daring the kettle not to boil under a stare. “I said, _stop_ hiding.”

Martin blinked, then released some of the “shield” he’d built along his side of the bond. Douglas visibly relaxed, even as he winced at what Martin imagined was somewhat of a rush of guilt and worry. The kettle beeped to a finish and Douglas rubbed at his chest as he poured boiling water into two pre-teabagged mugs.

“That’s better. I don’t know _how_ you do that but please don’t do it again. It’s…unpleasant.”

A coil of black nausea slimed down the bond and Martin shivered at the sense of emptiness. “Sorry, I didn’t realise.”

Douglas waved off the apology. “It’s fine. You weren’t to know, since I can’t… Anyway...” He thumped the mugs down on the pine table, gesturing Martin to sit as he retrieved sugar, milk, and teaspoons.

They let the cups brew in silence for a moment.

“Well, First Officer Crieff, seems you were right again.” Douglas removed the teabag from his mug, then added more sugar than necessary with a splash of milk, spoon clanking violently against the porcelain.

Martin prepared his own tea a little more delicately and cautiously. Douglas still hadn’t looked at him. “How’s that?’ he asked.

“Turns out she didn’t want to be with an old has-been with ‘Angina’.” Douglas thumped a fist at his heart. “She was going to call me anyway. I didn’t even have to tell her anything – although I _did_ , vicious cow _–_ she was already prepared to break up with me.” He snorted. “Even more so once I told her about MJN.”

Martin toyed with the handle of his cup, a little taken aback by Douglas’s harsh phrasing. Most unlike him to use such language.

This time it was Douglas who reached out to soothe. His warm hand coming to rest over and still Martin’s fidgeting one. “It wasn’t just what she said about me.” Though it was, Martin could read the stab of concern Douglas felt every time anyone suggested he was getting too old to fly…or, apparently, to romance. “It was what she said about _you_.” And that felt true, too.

Martin flipped his hand under Douglas’s to squeeze gratefully and apologetically. “Thank you, Douglas.”


	10. Chapter 10

Martin moved out anyway. They still needed their space, he argued, and while Douglas’s relationship with Elise might not have worked out, he was certain there’d be someone else along soon enough. 

Despite his reservations and concern – which he recognised as worryingly clingy and therefore something to be quashed – Douglas had pointed out that it was just as likely that Martin who had, he reminded him, managed to date a _princess_ for several months, would meet someone.

Martin had just blinked at him dubiously before making a noise that only sounded like assent.

 

It had been… _hard_. They’d expected that. After a couple of days living apart, with no flights to bring them together, they’d both started suffering headaches. However, Martin remained convinced it was still just a matter of gradually weaning off each other. So rather than packing up his newly acquired flat, they agreed to meet for coffee or a meal whenever the need arose.

 

It got better. And it was quite nice, really. They still saw each other at work, and Carolyn persisted in making them share a room whenever they had a layover, but otherwise, they each had their own space _and_ the benefit of companionship.

 

After a few more weeks, everything eased. They were no longer quite so emotionally on top of each other. The corset-tight lacing of the bond had eased to something more relaxed and comfortable, which made conversation slightly less fraught. Without the bond taking centre stage, Douglas found it easier to be more open and honest with Martin. And he thought Martin had loosened his own grip on the bond; no longer holding back quite so steadfastly. 

With Martin’s shield a little more permeable, Douglas was less tense, not so on edge. Though Martin had not shut himself off completely after the first time Douglas asked (and even the memory of that empty blank wall where his other half should be was enough to make Douglas retch) he _had_ learned to hold himself back in a way that made Douglas wary. It felt secretive and threatening, even though he knew Martin well enough, and could sense by what he _could_ feel, that Martin’s intent was to protect _Douglas_ from Martin’s own intrusive sensitivity. 

But as Martin began letting him back in (and himself back out) Douglas relaxed a little more into the idea that the bond was a safe space; that Martin could be trusted. He was sure this bled back to Martin and allowed the other man to calm down a touch, his block becoming more and more porous so that in the end their trust in each other fed the sense of trust; the bond felt stronger, firmer, and less like any skitter of emotion would cause it to injure – or break. 

In fact, by the end of the second month apart, Douglas had almost forgotten what it was like to feel emotionally compromised. Everything felt so calm and simple and content that he was certain they’d passed the point where they would or could hurt each other.

 

***

 

Douglas watched in amazement as Martin vacated the flight deck so fast he was nearly a blur. He ducked his head around the door to see that, rather than running across the tarmac as he’d expected – having assumed Martin was late for some appointment or other – he was actually lounging quite contentedly next to their passenger in one of the cabin’s aisle seats. He was oblivious to Douglas’s watchful eye, entirely captivated by the brunette with her filthy, rich laugh and whatever book it was she was showing him.

An unpleasant slither slid over and around Douglas’s intestines. He saw Martin frown, but he didn’t look up. Something in Douglas’s chest spasmed. Hard. He had to take a moment to catch his breath, watching as Martin merely rubbed absently at as sternum and pointed at another book the woman had piled on the flip-down table before her. Douglas shook his head, regaining his composure enough to stroll out of the cabin and down the steps, throwing a cheery farewell over one shoulder even as he stumbled on the bottom step.

Back in his Lexus, he leaned both arms over the steering wheel and his head against his arms. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

 

Embarrassingly, that was where Martin found him, ten minutes later, the expression on his face making it clear that Douglas’s calming techniques had not been enough to fool the bond. Not that he’d been trying very hard. Bit too distracted with trying to stay conscious.

The sunny, bell-like flutter that had been shimmering down their connection from Martin’s side had taken on a sour, nervous note.

“Are you all right?” Martin had opened the passenger door and was looking at Douglas with marked concern.

“How do you do it?” Douglas leaned back in his seat, staring out the windscreen rather than face Martin.

“Do what?”

“This.” Douglas gestured between them. “ _That._ ” He waved vaguely at Gerti, where Arthur was escorting whatever-her-name-was back to the Portakabin.

“Oh.” Martin pressed a pondering hand against his flat stomach. “ _Oh_.”

Douglas refused to acknowledge the slightly smug twinge at the far end of the bond as Martin gave up and slid into the seat beside Douglas. He didn’t acknowledge Martin’s stupid little smirk, either. Too busy rubbing grumpily at his own ribs, though he knew it wouldn’t help.

“Sorry, Douglas.” He even sounded it. Mostly. “I didn’t realise…”

“What?” That sounded a lot more snappish than he’d intended.

Martin turned in surprise, flinching a little at the piercing red twang Douglas hadn’t meant to send. “Well. It wasn’t anything, Douglas. She just wanted to show me—”

“—I _bet_ she did,” he muttered.

Martin was staring at him. Oh. Hadn’t intended that to be audible either.

“You’re jealous.” Points to Martin for not _actually_ crowing about it.

But…Douglas rubbed a little more firmly at his chest. “Not… quite. I don’t think.” He didn’t sound sure, even to himself.

Martin watched Douglas’s hand for a moment, then his eyes glazed over – clearly he was examining whatever he thought he could feel over the bond. “Oh,” he said softly. “I really _am_ sorry, Douglas. We were just talking.”

“Is this what it was like for you? When I…with Elise?”

Martin snorted. Ice-bright bitterness crackled snarkily up the connection. “Hardly.”

Douglas sighed in exasperation.

“We were just _talking_ ,” Martin emphasised. “You were in an actual _relationship_.”

“I…” Oh.

Fucking hell. It got worse than _this?_

“The difference,” said Martin casually, tapping his fingers against the leather finish on his door, “is that I’m used to this.”

“You—”

“Not to _this_ this,” he said hastily, pointing between them. “But to, uh, being alone. I guess. That, whatever you’re feeling, watching someone with someone else. Watching them connect. Having…” He took a deep breath. Cleared his throat. “Having something you don’t.”

The tapping was a little more forceful now. Douglas felt the bond tighten as Martin held back a pang of…something. “I’m used to it.”

Now that he mentioned it, Douglas realised he already knew. It wasn’t that Martin’s feelings over the bond this afternoon had been particularly clarion-like, so much as that they were such a stark difference to the usual sense.

He could always feel Martin. Not that he had anyone else to compare it to, but he was just…so _Martin_ over the bond. There was a nervous, top note flutter of anxiety that harmonized with the mid-range ringing of his pride. He concentrated harder on what he was feeling, ignoring Martin’s irritated squirming next to him. The higher, louder notes had distracted him from the low hum underneath it all. It was constant and well-worn and felt muffled by layers (years) of dust. 

To his shame he finally recognised it for what it was. Loneliness, he realised. And acceptance. Slightly subdued, echoey and aching.

And now he thought about it, it had been a constant pull under his skin since long before Martin had ever left for Switzerland.

He opened his mouth, but Martin got in first, undoubtedly alerted by the sick sorrow emanating from Douglas’s side of the bond. “Don’t.” His voice was tight. “You don’t owe me anything. And I don’t owe you anything. It is what it is.”

“But…”

“No.” Martin’s voice was firm and Douglas could already feel his side of the bond darkening like the sudden dimming of a pane of privacy glass. “This has hit you harder because you’re not used to it. I wouldn’t deliberately put you through this. I’ll be more thoughtful next time. But I don’t think either of us should—”

“—I wouldn’t say I’m not used to it,” Douglas interrupted quietly. “Three ex-wives, remember? I’ve watched someone I love, someone I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, walk away from me three times.” He’d stopped rubbing at his chest, but his hand was still pressed over his heart. “It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, but I accept it was possibly an overreaction in this case. Not that I could help it.”

Despite the shielding, the zing of Martin’s sorrow and regret was citrus-sharp over the bond, even as he turned to face Douglas with an almost grief-struck expression. He reached out to grasp Douglas’s hand where it lay at his sternum. “Whatever happens, Douglas. I’m not walking away. I’m truly sorry, I didn’t even think…well, I’ve nothing to compare it to.” He squeezed his fingers around Douglas’s. “We’ll be more careful.”

“Both of us,” agreed Douglas, squeezing back. “You never said anything. I had no idea…with Elise… and after…I just thought it was all because of. Well. Because of what she did.” He suppressed a shudder at the reminder of how the woman he’d thought he was falling for had treated his soul mate; aware on some level that he only felt so strongly about her slightly bullying behaviour because he felt precisely how much it had hurt his surprisingly sensitive friend. Guilt and shame overwhelmed him and he tugged Martin across the seats and into an awkward embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into Martin’s hair, the cheap, floral scent of his shampoo soothing in its familiarity.

“Me too.” Martin’s voice was admirably calm, but despite how uncomfortable he must have been twisted into Douglas’s arms across the gearstick, he was holding on very tight.

Bond or no bond, this was alarmingly touchy feely and rather more over-emotional outpouring than Douglas was comfortable with – even if he was the one who started it. He broke the moment with a manly clap at Martin’s shoulder blades and they both pulled back with embarrassed grins, the honest hum of apology and acceptance flowing back and forth over the bond preventing the moment from becoming uncomfortable.

“Dinner?” asked Douglas. “I’ve got chicken stew in the fridge.”

“Sounds marvellous,” said Martin, opening the passenger door. “I’ll follow you in the van.”


	11. Chapter 11

Douglas breathed in the salt air, soaking in the gentle splash of waves over the rocks below, near invisible in the dark from where they sat at a cosily candlelit table for four on the cliff edge above. It was peaceful out here, despite the sounds of merrymaking coming from inside the sun-bright restaurant itself. There was at least one party, and while it made much more sense for the group to be inside, contained and with proper lighting and dedicated service, Douglas privately felt it was a waste to come to a spot famed for its placement and sit indoors staring at white walls and art prints all night.

“This is quite nice. Good find, First Officer.”

Martin grinned, tapping his wine glass against Douglas’s mineral water. “I get a bit more time to research between trips, these days. Had to one-up you after that fabulous restaurant in Beijing last week.”

“Your sources are getting better,” Douglas agreed. “Certainly this is an improvement on that dreadful fish and chippery you took me to in New York.”

Martin sputtered a laugh just as a shadow fell across the table.

Douglas looked up expecting to see the waiter, but was stopped by sneering dulcet tones. “Well. This looks romantic.”

It was Elise. Of all people. Of places to meet. He snapped the menu shut. “Hello, Elise. I believe you know Martin?”

She had the grace to blush a little, but her smile was wooden. “Of course, Martin. How are you.” She turned back to Douglas, without waiting for Martin’s reply. Douglas could feel Martin’s apprehension shivering towards him. “So, Douglas. Is this why you were so keen to break it off with me?”

Martin’s shocked flush was nearly brighter than the candle. Douglas didn’t have time to analyse the flash of horror that barely brushed him before Martin clamped down on his side of the bond with an internal clang that forced Douglas to clutch the table edge – even as he gave Elise a wolfish smirk. “Not that it’s any of your business now, but yes.” He reached out blindly for Martin’s hand, rubbing his thumb over his friend’s knuckles. “Martin is very dear to me, and you—”

“Gosh. Hello chaps. This is a surprise, isn’t it?” Herc’s relaxed drawl wafted over Elise’s stiff shoulder as he appeared with a careful grin, apparently picking up on the tension.

“It’s hardly that much of a surprise,” said Carolyn in a no-nonsense drawl of her own, marching up from behind with Arthur beamingly in tow. “Given we just shared a taxi to get to this precise restaurant.”

To his credit, Herc only looked a little flustered, used to Carolyn applying her rather more coarsely grained sandpaper approach to any situation he was attempting to smooth over.

Martin had used the disruption to wrench his hand out of Douglas’s grip and was staring out to sea, bottom lip clenched in his teeth. He hadn’t broken his promise to Douglas; he’d left the tiniest crack in his shield so Douglas could still sense him, but otherwise the wall between them was a foot thick and lead-lined. The only thing Douglas _could_ feel was a faint pulse of hurt and betrayal seeping through the equivalent of a nail hole. And the worst of it was, he could tell _he_ , not Elise, was the cause.

“Well,” Herc rubbed his hands together, looking around the group. “That’s as maybe. But it _was_ still a coincidence.” He jutted an elbow at the loudest table at the back of the restaurant. “Little bit of an SA gathering tonight.”

Martin had hunched in on himself.

“Yes. Indeed.” Elise finally cracked the silence. “I’d probably better go and join them. We’ll see you soon, Herc. Uh… goodnight everyone.” She disappeared with clear relief.

Carolyn sniffed. “You’d better head over, Herc. We’ll be a couple of hours at the _MJN gathering_ out here, I expect. Feel free to join us when you’ve finished” – a rousing cheer broke out again – “ _celebrating.”_

“Will do,” said Herc, ignoring the sharp, pointy bits of Carolyn’s invitation and leaning forward to kiss her.

Carolyn blocked him with her clutch purse. “Yes, yes. Very good. We’ll see you later.”

Douglas grinned as Herc merely blinked this away, clearly entirely used to it, and bid the table farewell. Carolyn and Arthur settled themselves at the two remaining chairs.

Martin finally turned back to the table and managed a small smile. He didn’t look at Douglas again for the rest of the night.

 

 

Martin released a heavy sigh and loosed his mental grip a little. Douglas had finally fallen asleep. The slow, warm hum of the bond was a lethargic comfort as he slumbered. Reassurance that his other half was alive and well.

And unconscious.

It gave Martin some respite from the strum of worry that had been buzzing at him from Douglas’s side ever since Elise had appeared and Douglas had decided to put on a show.

In the darkness, alone in his slightly lumpy twin bed, Martin rubbed at his hand, where Douglas had earlier made a parody of a lover’s caress. As if he could physically rub away the sense memory. He worked his jaw, trying to ease muscles that had tensed to grind his teeth all through what ought to have been a pleasant meal. It helped a little, but there was no way to relax the other ache inside caused by holding so tightly to the shielding of his side of the bond. It was an ache of overstressed muscles – but deeper; not muscular at all. And it blended near-seamlessly with a much older pain. Hollow and empty and growing and gnawing.

Martin felt the welling of a tide of sorrow and resisted reacting. He was stronger than this. He wouldn’t let it beat him.

Legions away, just on the other side of the room, Douglas shifted in sleep. Streetlight sneaking through flimsy curtains crossed his face and lit the flutter of a frown. Martin pulled tight on the cord of his side of the bond, yanking his barriers closed like the drawstring on a bag. Douglas’s frown eased even as Martin felt overstuffed and suffocated by the inward force of his own emotions, tinged with the guilt of inflicting them, even briefly and whisper-gently, on his soul mate.

Not beaten. But he couldn’t hold it in entirely. Quietly he shuffled out of his bed and across to the tiny bathroom. Closed the door. Turned on the shower. And washed his sobs down the drain.

 

 

***

 

 

Not again. For fuck’s sake. Douglas wanted punch a wall. Or himself. Or even his soul mate. Had they not been through this enough by now?

Martin was sick again. He wouldn’t admit it, but he must think Douglas an idiot if he thought he wouldn’t notice the weight loss. If anything, it was more obvious now he wore a proper, fitted uniform. Because now it didn’t fit. Douglas had watched it grow baggy and loose over the course of a month.

Something cold gripped his chest. Either the bond was failing somehow, or Martin was _actually_ ill. Douglas rubbed a hand over his chest, searching inwardly for any sense of sickness in himself, but he was fine. He didn’t bother searching the bond itself. Ever since the – he’d hesitate to call it a _fiasco_ – but that _uncomfortable_ evening in southern Italy, Martin had reined himself back to a grey trickle. No promises broken. Enough to comfort and reassure. Not enough to reveal too much.

If he tried to probe, Douglas knew he would simply come up against a curved Teflon wall, designed as much to redirect as to block.

Rather than berate him again – it was uncomfortable but not as crippling as when Martin shut himself off entirely – Douglas had slowly learned to build his own wall, effectively shielding Martin from knowing how _hurtful_ he found the process on both sides. He knew Martin was a private fellow, and he’d learned just how sensitive he was. How deeply felt some teasing words could be. Martin being so very… _Martin…_ meant he had enough to deal with every day given his own stumbling and stuttering and missteps and foolish pride. If others lashed out in response, it was nothing against how he beat himself up each time. Douglas only felt a smidgeon of all this and it was gruelling. He imagined it was unbearably taxing to have to deal with a constant flow of all _Douglas’s_ emotions every hour of the day as well. So he learned to hold himself back a little; mildly concerned that having come so far they were now pushing each other away, but unable to deny that the thought of a little more mental and emotional privacy was enticing.

He refused to acknowledge the little voice that said this was how all his marriages had ended: with subtle separation before inevitable tearing apart. This wasn’t a marriage. It was …

He watched as Martin cinched his belt another notch tighter with a scowl. “Stop staring at me, Douglas.”

Douglas bowed his head in not-actually-apology, scooping his own hat off the bed by the window and lifting his bag from the floor. “My apologies, First Officer. I was just checking to see whether you’d manage to entirely loop your belt around your waist a second time, but it seems you’ve got at least a stone’s grace yet.”

There was a flutter of annoyance from Martin’s end of the bond, but Douglas’s heartfelt concern met it halfway and it fizzled. “I’m fine. Just haven’t been hungry lately.”

Douglas pulled the room door open and gestured for Martin to precede him into the hallway. He stepped out after him and let the door swing closed behind them as he halted Martin’s progress with a hand on his shoulder, pretending not to notice the way Martin simultaneously tensed and yet leant in to the contact. “Yes. You said. You haven’t been hungry for far too many weeks now.”

“It’s fine.”

“The last three times we’ve met up for dinner, not to mention—”

“Douglas.” Martin twisted his shoulder out of his grasp and strode towards the elevator without once looking him in the face. “I said it’s fine. It’s just…a bug or something.”

Douglas sniffed disbelievingly but was prevented making further suggestions about doctors as the lift arrived, filled with tourists ready to check out. And then they were caught up with travelling and flying and the moment passed.

 

***

 

 

It was _draining_. The emotional equivalent of trying to hold an angry crocodile’s jaws closed with his bare hands. More often than not he was left trembling with exhaustion by the time he went to bed at night. And he was always, always tired.

He could sense Douglas was worried, but even if he hadn't been able to feel it, Douglas asked him, constantly, if he was all right. 

Even Arthur and Carolyn seemed concerned, but he wasn't on death’s door this time. He convinced them all it was stress. Which wasn’t even a lie – it was the ever-tightening knot of stress and worry in his guts that left no room for anything else save the odd glass of water and occasional nibble of dry bread. 

The inevitable would happen. He was only so strong and he knew that fear had infected their link. Could feel Douglas reacting to it. Subconsciously, perhaps, but reacting nonetheless. Douglas’s wall was nothing like as impenetrable as Martin’s. There was a constant tremor of fear and trepidation tickling the bond and Martin didn’t know how to still it, especially when not all of it was his own. 

Neither of them addressed it, though Martin had become physically sick with it. Because Douglas _would_ find out, and what would happen when he did? 

It would destroy their bond...which in theory could be a good thing, giving them both back their freedom and privacy. But at what cost? 

It would ruin their friendship, never mind the bond. And everything Martin had read suggested a severed bond was terminal. To both parties. If the damage of separation had been bad, it was nothing, so his research suggested, set against the abject trauma of a bond being destroyed. A physical stripping and dying of something that was, in essence, half your very soul. 

It seemed one of the cruellest ironies life had thrown at him, but he shouldn't be surprised. Only Martin could find his _platonic_ soul mate... And fall in unrequited love with him.


	12. Chapter 12

He was in Cornwall, in a shipwreck museum, when it happened. At first his daughter and the two or three tourists rambling along the dark corridor laughed, assuming, as he dropped to his knee with a strangled “ _Arrrrrrr!”_ that he was playacting at pirates. But Emily was quick to notice her father clutching at his chest with one hand, the other gripped white-knuckled to the metal barrier separating them from the old ship. And if she hadn’t, his shuddering gasps and flush-white face would have given it away.

It was over as soon as it began. A knife stab of fear and pain…followed by unnerving static. Douglas had hauled himself to his feet and rushed his daughter to the emergency exit even before the museum staff had made it across to check on him. He waved them off, insisting he was fine, refusing demands he allow them to call an ambulance, and pulling his keys out of his pocket with shaking hands.

It was probably just as well he dropped them. The cashier had abandoned her post at the ticket/souvenir booth and plucked them from the ground before he could. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no way I can let you drive in that state. Certainly not with a child.”

Still breathing heavily, Douglas turned to look at the woman who gestured with an overly beringed hand at his youngest. Emily was doing her best to look strong and resolute, but her defiant fists clutched at her side and the daggers she was staring at this interfering person were subdued by the tears of worry that hadn’t yet been allowed to fall. He sagged with a nod, wrapping his daughter in a cuddle and trying to pretend he wasn’t panicking her further with the amount he was trembling.

The hushing buzz of white noise in his sternum was so loud he could barely hear. He released Emily only when her voice joined the woman’s – _Carol_ , apparently – in enticing him to stand and make his way to a sun-dappled chair outside the meagre café adjoining the “museum”.

“If you won’t let me call a doctor, you’ll at least let me get you some tea. You look like you’ve had nasty shock, sir.”

“Douglas.” Emily piped up helpfully.

“Douglas, then.” Carol left them for a moment, long enough to shout an order through to the kitchen. She still hadn’t given Douglas back his keys.

His eyesight was bleary enough that he accepted this situation without protest and pulled his phone out of his other pocket, entirely unsurprised when it rang in his hand, though he nevertheless answered with his heart in his mouth.

“Arthur? What’s happened?”

 

***

 

A car accident. Christ. Douglas rubbed his hand over his face as he shot a slightly wobbly smile at Emily, who was suitably distracted by the enormous strawberry sundae with which she had been furnished by concerned café staff. He took another sip of his ludicrously sweet tea. It helped, even though it made him want to strip the enamel from his own teeth.

The static was warming a little. Closer to a hum, though nothing like their usual link. And it felt echoey, open.

Fuck. He had wanted Martin to pull that damnable wall down, but not like this.

Martin, Arthur had reassured him, would be fine. But too many weeks of not eating properly had apparently caught up with him. (That was Douglas’s interpretation, at least.)

He’d run a red light – _Martin_ , of all people, had run a red light. On a major intersection. Thankfully, the person who hit him had been going from a starting position, or the damage would have been much worse. Nevertheless, Martin’s fourth-hand Citroen was likely a write-off. The crash had knocked him out briefly, but supposedly he only had a few cuts and bruises. The hospital were much more concerned about his general health and were keeping him for observation and rehydration “among other things”, according to Carolyn.

He didn’t need to rush back but, Arthur said, his presence probably would be helpful.

As if he’d be anywhere else. His muscles were tensed for flight and something under his skin crawled to be by his soul mate’s side. But he’d need a few more minutes, at least, to let the sugar do its job; to be safe behind the wheel himself. He checked the map app again. Four and a half hours was the estimated time. Which meant six at least, given it was the holidays.

He’d have to cancel the accommodation they hadn’t yet used. And Emily’s mother would have to collect her. From the hospital.

He massaged his brow at the thought of that potential argument.

“He’ll be all right, Dad.” Emily had finished her ice cream and was waiting patiently for her father to get ready to leave.

Douglas managed a half smile as he ran his hands through his hair again and tried to pull himself into a semblance of his usual self.

A metallic jangle accompanied the sliding of an empty plastic tray onto their table and Douglas thanked Carol for the keys – and the help – as he picked them up. He left her to clear his cup and saucer and Emily’s sticky glass as they made their way back to the car a few feet away.

 

***

 

Emily kept his spirits up and his eyes open with cheeky observations and theories about the shipwrecks and pirate history they’d only briefly explored. Gradually she teased him into a slightly more relaxed state and didn’t comment at the way he kept hovering a hand over his sternum. Said nothing when he had to pull over twice.

The first stop, not long after they hit the motorway, was because of a second lancing pain and sudden deadening of the bond – explained, through a second call to Arthur, as a consequence of the dislocated shoulder and fractured collar bone Carolyn hadn’t mentioned, and the subsequent morphine that had knocked Martin out entirely.

The second, when they had almost reached their destination, was because of an unexpected flood of emotion so intense Douglas nearly blacked out. This too was stopped almost as soon as it started. Douglas put his foot down hard on the accelerator, rather than phone his friends again.

 

The ache in Douglas’s chest, almost forgotten in the stress and tension of simply getting to the hospital, sharpened as he and Emily crashed their way through a seemingly endless series of swing-doors until they got to Martin’s ward. With the nurse’s station in sight, Douglas took a moment to stand and breathe, one hand pressed over his heart as he tried to will the beats back to normal. The sound of Carolyn clearing her throat rendered the exercise futile, his pulse spiking as she tried to guide him to where she and Arthur were sat sentry outside what must be Martin’s room.

The door opened even as he settled into the rickety plastic seat, though the nurse closed it too quickly for him to see inside.

“Are you family?” Her tone was brisk, and she barely looked up from the clipboard she was marking off.

“His partner,” said Arthur, utterly guileless from where he was sat with Emily.

“Five minutes, then.” Still without looking up, the nurse reached behind herself to flick the doorhandle open, then rushed down the corridor to the next patient.

Carolyn gave Douglas a gentle shove between the shoulder blades. “Emily will be all right out here. Arthur has already gathered the best that these vending machines can offer.”

Douglas exchanged a glance with his daughter and her lapful of crisps, then nodded, stood, and entered the room.

 

Pale and scrawny, Martin was easy to detect against the bright white of the hospital sheets, by virtue of the rainbow of bruises, scrapes and sutured cuts decorating his arms, chest…and face. His hair was a grimy orange halo against the pillow and an oxygen tube once again draped hatefully under his nose. The sling holding his arm in place was an obscenely cheery blue. The machine next to the bed, set to automatically dispense liquid pain relief through the needle in Martin’s uninjured hand, beeped gently.

Douglas heaved a great sigh of relief and anguish. Here, the smothering of the bond was even more obvious. It had been an age since he had been this close to Martin and been unable to read him at least a little. Now he felt like someone had stuffed all his senses and insides with cotton wool and thick dough. He pulled a chair over to the bedside and sank into it as his heart gave a violent twist. Martin’s eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake.

Careful not to jostle the needle, Douglas took Martin’s hand in his own and brushed a soft kiss over the knuckles. As something cracked, deep inside his chest, he rested his elbows on his knees, bowed his head, and waited.

 

The wait was long, but largely uneventful. Despite the initial warning, the nurses didn’t shift Douglas out of the room. Martin didn’t twitch. The morphine – for injuries rather more extensive than either Carolyn or Arthur had let on – was more than a little effective. Not even the regular hourly checks stirred him.

Douglas found himself getting light headed from Martin’s drugs, and only the adrenaline and worry kept him from passing out as thoroughly as his partner.

The single break in proceedings was the arrival of Emily’s mother, furious at having to cut short her own weekend away. Clearly spoiling for a fight after a 3-hour drive to collect her daughter, she seemed to relent after catching sight of Douglas’s face when he came out to explain. He didn’t know what she saw, but the knowing look she flashed at the closed door to Martin’s room spoke volumes. Instead of shouting at him, she wrapped him in a hug before carrying their sleeping daughter out to the car. Later, it occurred to Douglas that his own lack of reaction spoke volumes in itself, but at the time he was too concerned about Martin to pay any mind to his own feelings. Neither Carolyn nor Arthur, roused from their own dozing, had said a word.

 

***

  

They switched the morphine for something gentler in the early hours of the morning, intent on letting Martin wake naturally but painlessly. To Douglas, the warmth of Martin’s return to consciousness was like the glow of a sun rising over the horizon, though it flickered with not-quite-images and flashes as Martin’s breathing gradually sped up. As he felt Martin come back _on-line_ , Douglas too breathed relief, the tense ache in his heart gradually easing and the crack he’d felt earlier sliding wider.

He knew the moment Martin was fully conscious. His eyes might still have been closed, his face still slack, but a tidal wash of emotion, nearly as strong as the one that caught him on the way to the hospital, knocked Douglas back in his seat. Bleary with exhaustion, he had no control over the unexpected thread slowly unspooling from the crack in his own chest, and didn’t think to reinforce his “wall”; he was too busy gazing at Martin’s face, willing him to open his eyes. He didn’t notice he had Martin’s hand crushed against his lips until the fingers flexed in time with the blinking open of Martin’s eyelids.

“Douglas?”

Martin’s voice was a rasp, but there was no way Douglas was letting go to fetch ice or water. He sat in silence, staring into the silver-blue depths of his soul mate’s red-rimmed gaze – finally identifying the pounding wave of emotion for what it was. He saw it as Martin caught himself; the physical flinch, and the pinch on the bond as Martin tried to withdraw, to backtrack. But the drugs – and injuries – had made him sluggish and clumsy, despite the obviously sobering alarm.

Still unspeaking, Douglas placed a hand reassuringly on Martin’s uninjured shoulder and finally…finally let go the hold he hadn’t realised he’d had on the missing thread of their connection. Released, it unspooled more rapidly, twisting and twining around the chaos of Martin’s untethered end of the bond.

Calming, relaxing, and tightening.

It was a promise and it was acceptance.

 

It was love.


	13. Epilogue

Fractures were surprisingly painful. The treatment for both a fractured collarbone and for a dislocated (and apparently slightly fractured) shoulder were the same: a sling to immobilise the limb, and plenty of rest. At least the injuries were on the same side, so only his left arm was in a sling. Resting wasn’t a problem – he could do little else. Even now, a week later, his whole body ached – a result, the doctors said, of the jarring from the accident. It was mostly his spine – undamaged but inflamed and causing plenty of referred pain, including blinding headaches. By contrast, he barely registered the cuts and gashes littering his skin from the crushed glass and metal of the driver’s side door – he could see them in his reflection, the black of the sutures much more alarming than the wounds themselves – but they were comparatively painless against everything else. Martin felt as if he’d been hit by a truck.

Rather than another car.

He winced every time he thought of that; almost staggered under the weight of the horror of having caused such an accident. So unlike him to be so careless. He didn’t know much about the other driver – knew only that they’d been uninjured. Their new BMW having been far better built to withstand accidents than Martin’s beaten-up old wreck.

He’d already had to chat to the police while he was still in hospital. The insurance paperwork would no doubt be unending. He was trying not to think what it would end up costing him.

Martin accidentally heaved a sigh, only to have to catch his breath as the expansion of his ribs flared pain through his chest and shoulder. The automatic tension shot another dart of pain down his back and he clutched at the sink one-handed to prevent his knees from giving way. The tips of his fingers met the warm soapy water lapping at the edge and he concentrated on the bubbles as he took slow, shallow breaths.

A soft tap at the door and a flutter in his chest reminded him Douglas had only allowed him 15 minutes to attempt his own sponge bath before he’d insist on helping.

“I’m all right. Be out in a sec.” He couldn’t shout, either, but the bathroom acoustics helped broadcast his voice to the hall beyond, and a gentle squeeze over the bond reassured him that Douglas accepted his response.

Martin straightened, pulling the now-slightly-damp sling properly back into place and picking up the towel he’d left folded on the counter to dab at his chilling skin.

He let the water out of the sink and squeezed the flannel dry. Not as good as a real shower by any stretch of the imagination, but god it felt good to have scrubbed a little of the lingering hospital away.

It took him longer than he was happy with to haul on clean pyjama bottoms one-handed, even seated on the closed toilet, but he got there in the end. He’d given up trying to pull a T-shirt on. Aside from the pain of his cracked bones, the fabric caught too easily on the stitches across his chest, even covered as they were with waterproof tape. Instead, he slid his good arm through the cosy dressing gown Douglas had lent him, draped the other over his bad shoulder, and after a lengthy period of cautious contortions, managed to tie it relatively closed at his waist.

He was already exhausted. Any plans he’d had to join Douglas in the kitchen for a late breakfast were abandoned in favour of returning to his bed, with its comforting stack of pillows. He didn’t even have the energy to let Douglas know that’s what he was doing, but the house wasn’t exactly huge. Douglas would track him down.

 

Douglas had pre-empted him as usual. He’d moved the hall table into Martin’s bedroom and set it before the arm chair he’d moved into the room a couple of days earlier. A cafetiere released a waft of coffee into the air and a jug of fresh orange juice glowed invitingly. A single plate was piled with all the fixings of a full English, and as Martin looked up, Douglas shuffled in with a tray bearing a second plateful as well as a glass of water and a medicine cup of painkillers and vitamins. Douglas tipped his head at the bed. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll pop this on your lap.”

The bed was freshly made. Martin sank gratefully down on top of the covers, wincing a little as he tried to arrange himself comfortably, without the dressing gown bunching up. He had to breathe for a moment once he was in place, letting his bones and joints settle painfully into the new position. This bed was significantly more comfortable than the rattling metal hospital bed, but there was much to be said for the ease with which the contraption had lifted him to a seated position.

Eyes shut, he nodded slightly for Douglas to put the tray down; didn’t even feel it as Douglas flipped the tray’s hidden legs out so the food was at an appropriate height for Martin to eat.

He _did_ feel the kiss Douglas brushed soothingly over his brow. And when he opened his eyes, he had to stop an affectionate laugh as he looked at the plate – all the food cut into bite-size pieces already, so Martin only had to use a fork to shovel the food into his mouth.

“Thank you, Douglas.”

“My pleasure, Martin.”

For the second time that morning, Martin’s breath caught, but this time the cause was the look in his soulmate’s eyes. Force of habit made him mentally grab at the bond to halt the sudden flood of emotion he felt pouring out of him, but the comforting red-warm hum on the other side reminded him this was no longer necessary and he released his grip to allow the flow to wash over to Douglas’s side.

The answering return tide was still a surprise, and not for the first time, Martin felt himself tearing up at the intensity. He’d have been mortified if he couldn’t see Douglas surreptitiously dabbing at his own eyes too.

He busied himself, instead, with forking up scoops of bacon and beans. Knowing, even as he savoured the first real food he’d been able to manage in weeks, that the bond was revealing anything either of them might be visibly shielding. It made him nervy to be so open, and his hand shook, just a little.

Of course Douglas read this as well as anything else, confirming Martin’s theory by giving his thigh a reassuring squeeze, before focusing on his own plate of food.

“Whereabouts on the healthy eating leaflet did a fry-up fall, then?” Martin asked, once his hunger pangs had abated a little and he’d realigned himself in the new pattern of the bond.

Douglas scoffed. “No idea. But then no matter what the hospital staff or that interfering psychologist might have thought, we’re not _actually_ treating a dietary problem. Are we?”

There was a faint thread of worry there, easily brushed away with the flutter of Martin’s thoughts. Nevertheless, Martin flushed at the reminder of how embarrassingly, starkly – and dangerously – his most hidden feelings had been painted on his wasting body. His stomach began knotting again.

Before regret could take proper hold, there was a clatter as Douglas discarded his plate on the table and wrenched Martin’s tray off his lap; leaving it haphazard on the floor and plucking the fork out of Martin’s hand.

“None of that.” Douglas’s aggressive movements stilled to a dither as he clearly rethought his intentions of throwing himself onto the bed at Martin’s side. He resettled on his knees instead, clutching Martin’s free hand between his own.

If the fervent rubbing of his knuckles hadn’t been enough to convey to Martin how Douglas felt, the deliberate push of wave after wave of affection and… _love_ … over the bond would have done. There was a faint undercurrent of guilt sliming along it too – Douglas’s remorse for having hidden his own feelings from himself and from Martin for so long. Martin held tight to his own lingering concerns that this connection was still something Douglas didn't entirely welcome, even though his feelings were strong, honest and clear. They’d have to talk all this out eventually.

But not now.

Disregarding the pain it caused, Martin shuffled closer to the centre of the bed, freeing up space and tugging on Douglas’s hand to indicate he should lie down next to him.

Stray, chaste kisses aside, it was the closest they’d been since Martin had been hospitalised.

Actually, it was the closest they’d ever been.

There’d been no discussion as to where Martin would convalesce; his old room had been maintained at Douglas’s house, and with his injuries they hadn’t even considered sharing bedspace.

This seemed unnecessarily cautious, now. They’d been incapable of staying apart; Douglas had been sleeping in the chair by Martin’s bed, but the ridiculousness of that care was clear as he finally curled up next to his soulmate and it was like a final wall sliding down.

Martin released a breath so deep it felt as though he’d been holding it for at least a year.

Perhaps he had.

In return, Douglas tucked Martin as close and as carefully as he could against his chest, slipped his hand behind the sling to rest against Martin’s breastbone, and relaxed so thoroughly that it seemed to Martin all his bones must have dissolved.

They were yet to kiss properly, but with his cheek pressed against Douglas’s shoulder, and his free hand pressed firmly against _that_ point on Douglas's ribs, Martin was dimly aware of his partner’s lips pressing firmly and repeatedly into the lank curls on the top of his head.

 

They sat like that for an hour, reassurance and affection flowing treacle-thick between them. Martin could feel the bone-deep pain of his injuries receding, despite the painkillers that lay spilled and forgotten among the congealing detritus of his discarded tray on the floor.

Warm and sated in a way that had nothing to do with food or blankets, Martin shifted to look Douglas sleepily in the eye. Douglas pulled back, his fingers taking place of his lips and running soothingly through Martin’s hair.

“You need a hair wash.” Douglas’s voice was husky. The steady thump of his heartbeat against Martin’s injured shoulder and along the bond echoed in Martin’s chest; a not-quite-synchronised rhythm.

“You love me anyway.” Proximity meant that for once in Martin’s life, this wasn’t a question.

“I do.” Martin had never seen Douglas look so serious. He blinked away a last momentary whisper of doubt and leaned forward.

When they finally kissed there _were_ sparks. There were flashes. Mountains fell, suns burned. But it was contained in the threads that tied them together. And if their hearts stopped beating, it was only for moment, and when they resumed they beat as one.

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have TWO soul bonding works in progress...so I'm making it a series.


End file.
